DIARY OF AN ASSASSIN

A Thriller By

VICTOR METHOS

FREE WORKS BY VICTOR METHOS

(Limited Time Offer)

The Murder of Janessa Hennley (A Thriller)

CHAPTER 1

“Are you going to kill me in front of my family?”

Isaac Rhett glanced out the window to the minivan that was pulling away. “I waited until they left.”

“Where did they go?” the man said, panic rising in his voice. “You can’t do anything to them. They’re not involved in any—”

“I wouldn’t hurt your family. I called your wife and told her you were in the hospital because of a car accident.”

The man swallowed. “That gun you’re holding. The silencer looks homemade. You a former military man or something?”

“No.”

“I’ll pay you double. Whatever it is. I don’t care. I’ll sell my house and my cars. I got blue-chip stocks I could sell for six figures tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? You’re a fucking hired gun. What do you care?”

“I’m sorry.”

The man sighed. “Okay, okay. Just…gimme a minute, will ya? Just one minute.”

“Clock’s ticking.”

Rhett sat down across from him. The desk between them was a cherry wood that seemed to glimmer in the moonlight coming through the windows of the home office. The power had been cut and the moonlight was the only thing that allowed the man to see Rhett’s face.

“You’re a good lookin’ kid. Young. How old are you?” the man said.

“Thirty-four.”

The man pulled a blue pocket square from his jacket pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Thirty-four…I remember when I was that young. When my eyes were this blue,” he said, running his fingers over the piece of cloth. “I remember a lotta things. And you’re gonna take all of ’em away. Every single one of my memories you’re gonna wipe away. Everything I’ve ever done and everything I’m ever gonna do. Just like that. Poof. What gives you the damn right?”

Rhett stood up. The two men stayed silent a moment.

“It’s time,” Rhett said.

“Holy…oh shit on me, okay, okay,” the man said.

As he went to stand, a twelve gauge came up from under the desk, the barrel pointed at Rhett’s stomach. Rhett leapt to the ground as the boom echoed and the buckshot embedded itself in the wall behind him.

He rolled under the desk as another boom tore through the air. Rhett aimed and fired two rounds into the man’s knees, the silencer causing little more than two quiet spits.

The man toppled over screaming as Rhett jumped up, kicking the shotgun away. He pointed his weapon at the man’s head.

“You can’t do it,” the man said. “You can’t do it. Please. Please! I have two kids.” The man pulled out his cell phone. On the screen was a photo of two young girls. “They can’t grow up without a father. Not in these fucked up times. Please…please…”

Rhett felt the smoothness of the trigger, the weight of the .22 caliber Ruger. It was an older model, one that had been used by American soldiers during World War II. When a German unit would surrender, the .22s were the most prized out of what the soldiers would confiscate. Rhett had spent several thousand dollars modifying this one to ensure its reliability. He wondered just how many men had been killed with it.

Rhett lowered the weapon. He had killed so much, brought so much pain into the world, that there was nothing left of him. An empty hole right in the middle of him. He wondered when he had begun to dread new contracts, and why just now he felt the weight of having had enough.

He turned to leave. He was at the door when he heard shuffling on the carpet and the metal clank of the shotgun cocking. He spun and fired almost blindly into the dark. Three quick spits.

The man was frozen, the shotgun at his side. It dropped from his hands as blood began to trickle from three small holes in his face and throat. He toppled to the side. Rhett bent over him and checked his pulse…it faded, and then he was dead.

He looked at the man’s phone and the picture of the two little girls.

I’m so sorry.

Though it would have been easier to leave the body where it was, he wasn’t about to let one of his children find it. He hoisted the man onto his shoulders, and made his way out of the house.

May 20th

I remember the first time I killed a man. It isn’t something you forget. Not your first time. It burned itself into my mind and it never let go. I took him out to this swamp and we had to walk through mud to get far enough away from the road so that I felt comfortable. He spoke to me the whole time we walked. People always say the same things when they think they’re about to die. “Don’t do this” or “I have a family” or “I have money” or “You can just walk away and I’ll never say anything.”

I did that once. Walk away. It was a young man of maybe nineteen and I felt so bad for him that I let him go and he promised to disappear and never return. That night he went to the police and gave them a description of me. After that I heard he moved to South America where he was arrested for the murder of a thirteen-year-old girl.

But enough about him. I was talking about my first. I forget his name. I remember down to the last detail what he was wearing and the pained expression on his face, but I can’t remember his name.

He was telling me how much money he had and how much of it he could give me. He told me of his six children, which he had with two different women. He pulled out photos of the children and showed them to me. I just said, “And how many others are there?” He knew what I meant and put the photos away.

He was a war criminal, a major or equivalent in Bosnia. He was in charge of a rape house where up to eighty women a day, including girls as young as four, were gang raped by Bosnian soldiers. Many were impregnated. Those were allowed to live. This man was personally responsible for perhaps over one thousand rapes and was known to prefer that mothers and daughters be raped together.

“It was war,” he told me. “It was a different time. You can’t judge a man for things he does in war. That’s not fair.”

“What did those women do that you declared war on them?” I said. For some reason I spoke back to him. I haven’t done that since with a mark. Not ever. But that first time, I felt I owed him an explanation—or that he owed me one.

“It’s different now,” he said. “I would never do the things I did. I’ve repented.” I turned him around to look me in the eyes. “Some things you cannot repent for. Get down on your knees.”

In the movies, the person at gunpoint always does what their executioner says. I never questioned this, which speaks to the power of movies. But once you consider it, why would they dig their own graves? When I told him to get on his knees, he began to run. He knew he was going to die and he didn’t want to cooperate in his own death.

I shot him once through the hamstring but he kept running. I shot him through the other and he fell to his knees and began to crawl away. I could have ended it then, but I didn’t. I don’t understand why. Instead, I shot out his elbows so he couldn’t crawl and I came up and stood over him. He was crying now. I had always thought that if someone was about to die, they would pray. He didn’t.

Maybe he thought that God wouldn’t listen to someone that had done the things he’d done. I don’t know. Or maybe he knew it just wouldn’t help. I pointed the weapon and fired a round into his temporal lobe, just above the ear, and another into his frontal lobe, just above the eyebrow. That’s how they taught us to look for targets—view the person without their skin and fire at the most vital areas.

I stood over the body a long time, just looking at him. For some reason, I expected the skies to part and the wrath of the heavens to rain down on me. I thought I would be punished. Few people on this earth deserve to die as much as he did, but I still thought I would be punished for it.

But nothing happened. Silence. A gray silence as the fog rolled over the wet swampland. I heard a crow somewhere above me. They were quick. They knew death better than anything and they were quick getting to it. They would finish it.

CHAPTER 2

The motion of the plane landing on the tarmac and applying its brakes woke Rhett from a dreamless sleep. He looked out the window to the night sky, a full moon hanging over the island. Saint Thomas was technically an unincorporated province of the United States, but every time he stepped off a plane, it didn’t feel like it. It felt like he was a million miles away.

The air was humid and he wore a loose white shirt and jeans with sandals as he hailed a cab. The driver smelled of alcohol and marijuana.

“Where to?”

“Hamlet’s Café near Magen’s Beach. You know it?”

“Yup,” he said, pulling away. “So where you coming from?”

“Mainland. A small town with a thousand people.”

“Oh yeah? I’ve always been interested in small towns. I’m from a small town just outside Nashville. I came out here for vacation and never went home.” The driver glanced in the rearview and then back out onto the road. “So what were you doing in a small town like that?”

“Work.”

“What d’ya do?”

“Retired.”

“No shit? You’re pretty young to be retired. Must’ve made some good scratch.”

Rhett didn’t respond. Instead he stared out the window as the airport faded away and the lush, green vegetation closed in. Soon, they were on a narrow road heading up a small hill as they headed for the coast.

The cab arrived at the café in less than ten minutes. Rhett paid the driver and thanked him before going inside and ordering a pulled pork sandwich and a margarita. He sat out on the veranda about a hundred feet from the beach and watched the moonlight reflect off the water.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and next to the icon for an app was the number one. The icon didn’t have a name and was black with no illustrations. He opened it, revealing a black screen with red lettering.

Houdini, are you there? I assume everything went well.

The words appeared on the screen soundless, pulled from the air. Rhett replied.

Yes.

Excellent. The other half of the funds will be deposited immediately.

Thank you. There’s something else…

What?

I need a break. I’ve had several contracts in a row.

What do you mean???

I simply need some time off. A vacation.

There was a long pause before the reply came.

You can’t be serious. Is this about the mark? Do you feel guilt? Guilt is not for us. Do you know he was a war criminal?

I know.

If you know then why do you feel guilt????

I just can’t do it anymore. I’m having nightmares. It’s killing me. I have to stop.

Another long pause.

You once told me that you owed me a favor for what I did for you. Do you recall?

Yes.

I am now calling that favor. I have one more assignment. Just one. When it is complete, you may take as much time off as you need.

I would like to be done now. Sorry. Ask anything else for the favor to be repaid. I will waive the other half of the fee for last night.

I don’t want anything else and money means nothing. You owe me one favor given by your solemn word. So now you just need to ask yourself: are you the type of man who keeps his word or breaks it?????

Rhett exhaled. His food arrived and he took a bite of the sandwich and wiped his lips with a napkin before taking a long drink of the margarita. He looked out over the ocean a while before responding.

Fine. One more.

Of course. I will forward the information now. Thank you, Houdini.

Rhett placed the phone down on the table as he took another bite of the sandwich. The phone buzzed again a moment later. On the first page of the app was the black-and-white photo of a woman with shoulder-length blond hair. Underneath her photo, her name was hyperlinked to a dossier.

Rhett texted back, I told you, no women.

The favor, remember?

Ask someone else. You have other magicians.

You are perfect for this. It is high profile and I cannot risk any exposure. It must be you.

I’ve seen her somewhere. She’s famous.

She’s a congresswoman. Right up your alley, eh, Houdini???? ;) Now be a good lad and do your job.

Rhett stared at the phone. He had made a promise that he swore he would keep, a favor to a man that allowed him something he needed desperately in his life at the time, but now he wanted to do nothing more than break it. He opened the dossier and read the name: Stephanie Michelle Johnson. Congresswoman for the fourteenth district of New York.

CHAPTER 3

Stephanie Johnson stepped out of the mansion and breathed in the night air, calming her nerves. A line of Cadillacs, limos, and two bright red Ferraris traced the circular driveway. The mansion sat in upstate New York on twenty acres of property owned by Clarence Fillmore: one of Stephanie’s biggest donors, a man who had made his money in the beef industry in the eighties.

Rachel, Stephanie’s aide, stepped out and stood next to her without saying anything. She pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one.

“Gimme one of those, Rach.”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said, handing her the lighted one.

“I don’t.”

Stephanie sat down on the stone steps and Rachel joined her. They watched as a drunk man stumbled to his car, a young woman behind him. They made out a while before the car started and he drove away.

“I can’t believe someone this rich didn’t hire a valet,” Rachel said.

“That’s how he made his money. Squeeze everything you can from every penny.”

“I think he was hitting on me earlier. He could be my grandfather.”

“He has a reputation for abusing women. Stay away from him.”

“Eh, as if. How could you even think that?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at Greg, and he’s, what, twice your age?”

“That’s totally different. Greg’s hot. He goes to the gym twice a day and tans like crazy.”

“Does he still have his original teeth?”

Rachel nudged her with her arm. “You’re so mean. No wonder you’re a politician.” She puffed at her cigarette. “Where’s Paul?”

“My husband,” Stephanie said, looking away, “is in the coat closet right now with an intern.”

Rachel nodded. “Steph, why haven’t you left him yet? I got you that meeting with the lawyer. He’s supposed to be the best in the state. He’ll get you out with no mess.”

“I’m almost forty. It’s not as simple as that.”

“Bullshit, you’re a total cougar. Do you know how much the interns talk about you? You’re like the hot teacher they all wanted to bang in high school.”

She smiled. “Really? What do they say?”

“You don’t want to know; they’re gross about it. I’m serious, though. Why do you stay?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I know I can’t satisfy all his needs and I’m gone so much, how can I expect him to just be alone?”

“He’s not alone now. Instead of being with you, he’s in a closet with some slut.” She sighed. “You wanna do something naughty?”

“What?”

Rachel threw her cigarette down and stepped on it. “Come with me.”

“What are we doing?”

“Just come on.”

Entering the mansion, they passed a large atrium replete with plants flown in from all over the world. Party guests mingled in all the corners and surrounded the bar as a handful of waiters served champagne. Rachel took Stephanie’s hand and slipped through the crowds until she spotted Clarence Fillmore speaking to a few people out on a patio.

“Wait here.”

Rachel ran over and interrupted. She whispered something in his ear and then ran back, taking Stephanie and disappearing into the crowd.

“What d’you say?” Stephanie asked.

“I told him I wanted him right now and to meet me in the coat closet.”

Stephanie giggled despite herself. She took a glass of champagne and nursed it as Rachel struck up a conversation with two men. Stephanie managed to slip away unnoticed a few moments in and went out to the patio. She sat and watched all the men and women meandering about, attempting to look sophisticated or say something witty. She disliked them. But Clarence had asked her to come so she did.

She understood something that most politicians were only dimly aware of their entire careers: she could be rented by her donors. Every politician catered to their major donors but most of them fooled themselves into thinking they were independent and didn’t need to do it. She understood that she was obliged to them. Many of her friends had been thrown out of Congress by younger challengers because they didn’t understand this simple fact.

A scream rang out and then laughter. Stephanie glanced back to see a half-naked woman running out of the mansion and Paul scrambling to pull up his pants. She smiled and turned away.

A few moments later, Clarence came and sat next to her. “No one appreciates a good joke as much as me, but that was just cruel.”

“Don’t take it personally, Clarence. It was directed at Paul.”

“What the fuck was he thinking? In my coat closet? Chris Mathews is here. What if he decides to run with the story of your husband openly cheating on you?”

“Didn’t seem to hurt Hillary much.”

“Touché,” he said, taking a sip of his champagne. “You’re always welcome to stay here. I’ve got thirty rooms and it’s just me.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, lightly touching his hand. “You’re a good friend. But I’m fine.”

He shrugged and took another drink.

CHAPTER 4

Rhett waited in the alley and watched the steam rise from the Manhattan sewers in the cold morning. A non-profit was set up near some dumpsters and he watched people file in and out of the front door. It was a single glass door covered in handprints, the dumpsters just off to the side. He wondered how people even found this place if they needed to come here.

Manhattan was not his city. He disliked crowds and disliked filth even more. Compared to his Saint Thomas with its clean sandy beaches, Manhattan seemed to him soiled with a stench that permeated everything, even him.

A van pulled to a stop behind him, driven by a man with jet-black hair and a gold chain around his neck. In the passenger seat was a smaller man, eyeing Rhett like he had never seen another man before.

The driver stepped out and approached him, his hands in his pockets as his eyes flitted to the non-profit and back.

“You got our money?” the driver said.

“It was wired to you this morning.”

“I couldn’t get it.”

“It has a hold. The hold will be removed as soon as the merchandise is delivered.” He glanced into the van, his eyes sweeping the driver. “I don’t know either of you. Where’s Johnny?”

“He had to be in Philly. His pop’s really sick.” He glanced around again. “Come on back.”

At the back of the van, the man opened the doors, revealing two steel suitcases.

“Open them,” Rhett said.

The first cradled a rifle in six separate pieces. Pure chrome with an infrared laser scope, it shimmered in the dull light of the alley. The next suitcase contained a pistol in four pieces. Also shining chrome.

“Remove the hold,” the man said.

Rhett watched his face: a bead of sweat was rolling down the forehead. Rhett didn’t take his eyes off him as he pulled out his phone slowly and dialed a number. After he entered in another, longer number, a message reported, “Funds released. Thank you,” loud enough for the man to hear. The man smiled.

“Fifty thousand,” he smirked. “Who has that kind of money for a couple a guns?”

“People that need guns I suppose.”

The man reached into his pocket and removed a package of cigarettes. He put one to his lips, and as he patted his pockets for his lighter, his eyes never left Rhett’s.

“We done here?” Rhett said.

“Those guns are expensive. It would be a shame if they were stolen. Maybe you want I can drive them to your hotel for you.”

Rhett glanced to the driver and then reached for one of the suitcases, his other hand slipping into his jacket. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

As he pulled the first suitcase out, the man in the passenger seat swung around, a Smith & Wesson pistol in his hand. Rhett drew his .22 and fired two shots, hitting the man in his left hand, the Smith & Wesson falling to the van floor.

The driver swung with a right. Rhett ducked and came up with an elbow into his jaw. It snapped his head back and Rhett kicked him in the groin and swept his legs out from under him before he had recovered. The passenger, grunting from pain, scrabbled for the pistol. Rhett jumped in and grabbed his hand, shoving his finger through the small bullet wound in the back of his other. The man screamed and Rhett bashed his open mouth with the butt of his .22, cracking several teeth.

The other man was on his feet and pulling a pistol out of his waistband. Rhett fired a single round, shattering his collarbone. The man shrieked and fell back in pain. The passenger threw a lightning-fast punch and caught Rhett on the jaw. He punched again and again, landing blows to his neck and face.

Rhett brought his arms up and covered his face. He got up to his knees and spun around with a hook, connecting with the man’s temple. He fired two rounds into the man’s shoulders and then swung with everything he had into his jaw, breaking it and knocking him unconscious.

He leapt outside the van and rolled to his feet, coming up with the pistol pointed at the driver, who was slouched against the vehicle, delirious from pain. Rhett stashed the weapon and removed both suitcases from the back before bending down over the man and checking his wound.

“Normally I would’ve just killed both of you, but you’ve caught me at an odd time. You’ll live by the way.”

Rhett turned to leave, a suitcase in each hand, when he saw a small child standing behind the glass door of the non-profit, staring with an open mouth at what he’d just seen. Rhett looked to the van and then back to the kid and said, “That’s what happens when you don’t stay in school.”

He went around the corner to a Cadillac and drove away.

June 16th

We were in the forests of Virginia, somewhere in the south of the state. I couldn’t say exactly where because they wouldn’t tell us. We were doing maneuvers in pure mud because it had been raining for three days straight.

A woman was in training with us. It was a big deal in those days and we had to respect her. At least I respected her. She was brunette and slim, with the muscles of a bodybuilder and the deep blue eyes of a model. Her name was Heather and she, out of the class of six, had by far the toughest job. Because while the rest of us helped each other through the training, she felt she had to prove herself by doing it all on her own.

As we were finishing up a ten-mile run through the mud with fifty-pound packs on our backs, we stopped suddenly and dropped to our stomachs. Targets appeared up in the forest. We took out our L115A3 AWM rifles. Probably the best sniper rifles known to man. They were a British make and I always thought it odd that we were Americans, signed up with an American agency, on the premise of patriotism, using British weapons. It wasn’t until later that I realized it spoke a lot about the agency: they used whatever tool worked. Pride and emotion played no part in their decisions.

Heather pulled out her weapon and began to assemble it. She took out her night-vision goggles, as it was late now. Taking a step forward, she slipped on the mud and fell to the side, and, I’d learn later, broke her ankle.

The rest of us fired off our shots. Five clean shots through the hearts of the paper targets. We packed up and began the jog again. All of us except Heather. She packed, but couldn’t walk. The other men looked to each other and to me.

“Leave her,” they said, and they began to jog away. I started to run and then glanced back at her, covered in mud, slogging through the forest with a broken ankle. No woman had ever looked so beautiful to me before.

I went back and put her arm around my neck. “I don’t need your help,” she said. “Maybe not,” I said. “But you’re going to get it anyway.”

She looked at me and then didn’t say anything for a while. When she did speak all she said was, “I’m Heather.”

“Isaac.”

“I know,” she said.

CHAPTER 5

At least the morning was warm, Rhett thought as he woke at the Four Seasons. In his bathrobe, he looked out the windows at the city. He’d been here twice before, one time for work…and one time with his wife.

He remembered it was snowing and she looked so beautiful as snowflakes sparkled on her eyelashes. They walked down the street, in awe of the city and the life they had ahead of them. She had just finished her medical degree and was going into pediatric medicine. Rhett was moving with her to Chicago where she would complete her residency. It was just the beginning of their life, filled with hope and possibility…then she was ripped away from him.

He turned away from the window and showered, dressing in jeans and a sports coat. He headed downstairs and opted to take a taxi instead of driving the Cadillac, which he had rented with one of his fake identifications and credit cards.

“Where to?” the cabbie said.

“Hamilton Hotel. The construction site.”

“You got it.”

Rhett noticed the cabbie took the longest route but didn’t say anything. It gave him a moment to think and watch the city. Cities, he believed, had energy and personality. Some cities he’d been to, like Bangkok, had dark energy. Something taken from the acts that the citizens allowed to occur there every day. Some cities had good energy that made one feel uplifted just by being there. Though often disgusted by the city, today, he couldn’t tell where Manhattan fell.

He arrived at the site. Crowds were already gathered. They would be breaking ground today for the hotel, and the mayor and two members of Congress would be there.

Rhett paid the cabbie and got out. He mingled with the crowd as the mayor delivered a speech on the future of New York and how they were the most progressive state in the nation. He read through some stats of the city and the improvements that had been made. It was essentially a reelection speech.

Then he introduced Stephanie Johnson, congresswoman of the fourteenth district. She met applause and shook a few hands before taking the podium. Rhett watched her as she told a story about her first time in Manhattan. The crowd laughed. The woman was a natural up there. Her story wasn’t forced in any way, and he could tell she enjoyed what she did.

Rhett pulled up her dossier on his phone.

She’d been born in New Haven, Connecticut, to a single mother. Her father had abandoned them before she was born and she had never established contact with him. She had one sibling, and her mother worked two jobs and attended law school at night. She eventually became a successful contract litigation attorney and was able to send Stephanie and her brother to a private school. When Stephanie graduated high school, she attended the University of Connecticut and then NYU for law.

Stephanie was married at twenty-five to Paul Johnson, another successful attorney, who, Rhett saw, had a short criminal history of two drug possession cases and a DUI. He worked at a large law firm and was able to avoid any sanctions by the state bar, receiving only a short suspension and some drug and alcohol counseling.

A photo of Stephanie was included. This had been snapped by the tagger—the man or woman who did the research and put the dossier together—and Stephanie was unaware she was being photographed. She was waiting on a street corner for something, wearing a skirt and a red blouse. She was staring off in the distance, her face pointed in the direction of the camera. Rhett gazed into her eyes. They held something. He wasn’t entirely sure what. Maybe pain. A hidden pain that she refused to show the world.

Applause erupted around him and he looked up to see Stephanie smiling at the crowd. He looked into her eyes. Despite her best efforts, she wasn’t able to hide the pain he had seen in the photo. It was still there, like a weight that she couldn’t push off herself.

He listened to the rest of her speech and watched the security detail that had accompanied her. It was a private firm. The Secret Service wasn’t assigned to members of Congress unless they were running for the presidency, were the speaker of the house, or were a majority leader of the senate.

Her security detail were laughing and not paying attention to the crowd. Rhett listened to the lieutenant governor begin his speech as Stephanie took a seat.

After that the mayor broke ground by cutting a ribbon and pushing a shovel into the dirt, posing for the half dozen photographers.

When it was over, Rhett watched as the security detail followed her to a car. One of the men slipped into the driver’s seat and the other the passenger. Their heads were buried in their phones and they were completely oblivious to what was going on around them. They drove away, Stephanie in the backseat on her cell phone, staring out the windows, which Rhett could tell had not been reinforced: she was completely vulnerable.

The lieutenant governor was coming through behind him and Rhett stepped back. As he came by, he grabbed Rhett’s hand. One photographer, an overweight man with glasses, caught the moment.

When the groundbreaking was finished and the crowd had dispersed, Rhett waited across the street. He watched a photographer speak to a few other people before he walked away on the sidewalk: no car. Rhett followed him.

The photographer continued on the concrete walkway, slipping past crowds, his head down over his phone. They were on 3rd Ave near 68th and Rhett was close enough to him that he could see the tattoo peeking out from his sleeve.

The photographer turned into a bar and grill. Rhett waited a few moments and then followed him inside. The bar was dimly lit but had plenty of windows. Two flatscreen televisions were tuned to ESPN, and the photographer hunkered down at the bar and ordered a beer, staring blankly at the screens. Rhett sat one stool down.

The camera was placed on the bar next to the man’s beer. Rhett ordered a Heineken and pretended to watch television.

“How you doing?” Rhett said.

The man nodded.

“I’ve never been here before. Seems like a nice place.”

“Listen, I’m not really looking for any friends and I ain’t a queer so there’s no reason for us to talk.”

“Sure, sorry.”

Rhett got his beer and then the bartender turned away, busy with some crates. Two other patrons sat in the bar but they were clearly alcoholics, completely focused on their drinks. Rhett pulled a small canister the size of a stick of gum out of his pocket. He got in really close to the photographer, almost as if they were kissing.

“What the f—”

As Rhett pushed the button on the canister, a small spray entered the photographer’s nostrils. His eyes almost instantaneously rolled back into his head and he started snoring. Rhett placed the photographer’s head down on the bar and grabbed the camera as he headed out the door.

CHAPTER 6

The night air had a chill to it and the moon was covered by clouds. Rhett sat on the roof of a small apartment building across the street from Stephanie Johnson’s home, a large multi-level condominium. The telescope was set in front of him on the ledge and the audio receiver was next to it, appearing like some miniature satellite dish. It could receive sound from over two hundred feet away and permeated through brick walls.

As her husband, Paul, parked in a reserved spot up the street, Rhett turned the receiver on and put in his headphones. Stephanie sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee. It was one in the morning. Rhett peered through the telescope and could see that Paul’s tie was undone, his shirt untucked, and, even through a telescope, that he had make-up smeared on his collar.

“Were you with your whore again?” she said mildly.

“She’s not a whore,” Paul said as he went into the fridge. “But she does fuck like an animal.”

Stephanie winced. “Do you really have so little respect for me? What happened to us, Paul? You used to love me.”

“I know.”

“Was it something I did, to make you fall out of love with me?”

“You fell outta love with me a long time ago. If you ever loved me at all. I think you might’ve married me just to get away from that family of yours.”

“I want a divorce. I saw an attorney and he’s drafting the paperwork. You can have the condo and the car. I don’t want anything from you.”

“We’re not divorcing,” he said, placing some sandwich items on the counter.

“We’re no-fault, Paul. It’s not up to you.”

Paul swiped his arm across the counter, a jar of mayonnaise hitting the wall and shattering. He spun around and grabbed Stephanie by the collar, lifting her up and slamming her against the fridge. She was crying and begging as he slapped her across the face twice before letting her drop to the floor.

Rhett’s grip on the telescope tightened till his fingers were turning white.

Paul stood over her, wiping a splatter of mayonnaise off himself with his hand. “Clean up this mess and make me a sandwich.”

“Get out!” she screamed.

He laughed. “My name’s on the deed too. You get the fuck out.”

As he walked away, Rhett followed him. He stood by the stairs, debating something, and then grabbed his coat and went back outside and down the street to his car. Rhett turned back to Stephanie. She was on the floor, curled up with her knees against her chest. She was crying, her face buried in her arms.

He lowered the telescope, tapping his fingers against it for several seconds. Pulling out his phone, Rhett opened her dossier and clicked on a telephone number. Stephanie sniffed a few times, pulling herself together before answering.

“Hello?”

Even to a number she didn’t recognize, she had to portray strength.

“Hi, is Andy there?”

“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”

“Oh, you sure? I was under the impression he would be there.”

“No, this is the Johnson residence,” Stephanie said, standing up and beginning to clean the mess.

“Oh. I’m sorry about that. I had a friend from a long time ago at this number. I guess I don’t know why I still expected him to have it.”

“That’s okay.”

“My name’s William.” Stephanie was quiet a moment. “Sorry, I know it’s weird. I was just lonely right now and felt like talking to somebody.”

“I’m sure they have chat lines for that.”

“Yeah. I’m sure they do. Sorry again, I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, wait, I was rude. I’m the one that should be apologizing.”

“It’s fine.”

“So who’s your friend that had this number?”

“A friend that was there for me once when I didn’t have anyone else.”

“Those kinds of friends are rare,” she said, standing up and going to her purse. She removed the divorce papers and put them on the kitchen table.

“I know, but I didn’t realize that until too late. We met in high school, two nerds that got beat up together.”

“I know the feeling. I was captain of the chess team.”

“Ouch. I purposely avoided the chess team. Science Club was bad enough, especially when the supervising teacher made us wear Star Trek uniforms.”

She chuckled. “That’s bad.”

“Yeah, it was a pretty quick sprint home that day after school.”

“I bet.”

Rhett was silent, watching her through the telescope. “Well, I better leave you alone before you think I’m some stalker.”

“Yeah. I hope you find your friend.”

“Me too. Bye.”

Rhett hung up and watched her. She cleaned up the mess and then shuffled upstairs to change. He turned away as she stripped down and stepped into the shower, packing up his scope and receiver. As he was about to leave, he glanced in one more time and saw her nude outline behind the frosted glass.

He turned away and headed back to his hotel.

CHAPTER 7

Rhett was working out in the hotel’s gym the next morning when his phone buzzed. The black app had a one on top of it. He clicked it. It was the Messenger:

Contract must be carried out tonight. Make it happen.

I can’t do it. I’m leaving.

Why????

I told you before: no women.

It’s different killing a woman. I know. But this contract is no different than any other. Don’t delude yourself: a life is a life and you’ve taken plenty.

I won’t do it.

If you don’t do it I’ll get someone else. Someone sloppier. She’s going to a family reunion tonight. Maybe I’ll just have them set explosives and take out the whole family????? :)

Rhett thought carefully before he replied.

I will cover whatever you’ve been paid for the contract and more.

Tsk tsk, Houdini. Now you know we can’t rescind contracts. It’s bad for our reputation.

It’s not rescinding…I’m buying a new one. Tell the purchaser that I’m taking a contract out on them unless they remove hers.

Now we wouldn’t be in business long if purchasers thought we would suddenly flip and take contracts on them, would we????

Rhett thought a moment.

Don’t send anyone else. I’ll do it.

I thought you would see reason. Good luck.

Rhett hung up the phone and continued his workout.

Near 2nd Ave was a small bookstore with a picture of Hemingway up in the window. Rhett stood outside, staring in. His wife had loved this bookstore. Once they had spent over an hour here until she decided on a book of poems. They were so broke at the time, that when the cashier rang it up and it came to fifty dollars because it turned out to be a rare edition, they couldn’t afford it and had to put it back.

The bookstore was dilapidated and had three employees, none of which said hello or tried to see if Rhett needed anything. He walked to the poetry section and began scanning the books. In the middle of the second shelf was a small, brown, leather-bound book with gold-leaf trim. He took it out and read the first poem, the one that had interested his wife:

We shall be notes in that great Symphony

Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,

And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be

One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years

Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,

The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!

He closed the book and walked to the front. The employee rang it up and the price had gone up to a hundred dollars.

“That seems pricey,” Rhett said, pulling out his wallet.

“Take it or leave it,” he said, not looking up from the comic book he was reading. “No returns either.”

Rhett paid him the cash. “Always a pleasure being back in New York.”

A woman, one of the employees, strolled up from behind him and leaned against the counter. “Nice ring.”

Rhett looked to his wedding-ring finger. A large, silver band with Celtic decorations emblazoned across it took up a third of the finger. “Thanks. I forget it’s there.”

“Your wife get that for you?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s got good taste. In poems too,” she said, playfully flipping a few pages in the book on the counter. “Unless this is for you.”

“It’s for both of us I guess.”

“Where is your wife?” She looked past him into the book aisles. “I wanna see her ring.”

Rhett took the book without a bag and tucked it into his jacket pocket, next to a little red journal he kept there. “She passed away three years ago.”

He left the store and checked his phone: the address he needed to be at had arrived in the black app.

CHAPTER 8

The Willard Estate sat on four acres of property an hour outside Albany, New York. It was a wooded area with nothing but forests around it as far as Rhett could see. He’d never been out this way, and it surprised him just how much wilderness was only a few hours’ drive away from Manhattan.

It had rained recently and the ground was wet, the vegetation glistening as the clouds parted and the sun peeked back out. It wasn’t cold but it wasn’t hot either as Rhett sat in his car two blocks down the street from the Willard in a secluded area. He was in a parking lot for people going hiking up a trail just in front of him and he had seen exactly one person in the space of an hour as he sat there killing time.

His phone’s timer buzzed. He pressed it off and slid out of the car, grabbing the backpack in the trunk. He had changed into sweatpants and a Sundance T-shirt with hiking boots and a cap. Strands of red hair from the wig he wore underneath the cap hung out, just enough for anyone looking to see and later describe his hair as red. The strands grazed the wire-frame glasses he had opted for. Two fake tattoos marked his forearms: a dragon and a bright red heart with a knife through it. Anyone as close as ten feet away would be able to see the tattoos—and also later describe them—not knowing they would wash off in a few minutes under running water.

He strapped on the backpack and headed toward the Willard Estate, walking through the trees rather than on the side of the road. The forest was quiet except for the leaves crunching under his boots, and as he walked, he stared deep inside the mass of twisting trees. Someone could hide in there and pounce on any unsuspecting sucker that happened by.

He saw danger everywhere and had a difficult time focusing on the beauty all around him. He remembered he didn’t feel that way as a kid and thought that maybe that was just part of becoming an adult. You see the things under the surface of perceived reality and it changes you.

When he arrived at the estates, he saw that there were no gates: anyone could walk up to the main house. He casually approached the back, surveying the massive white mansion as guests poured in from the parking lot. He retreated from the property line about twenty feet, remaining parallel to the house. Lifting the binoculars that hung around his neck, he looked into the home: he had an unobstructed view of every room on this side of the home, including the living room where everyone seemed to be congregating.

Rhett lay down on his stomach. The wet leaves clung to him and he felt the dampness through his shirt. He took off the backpack and unzipped it. The rifle was still in pieces. He expertly assembled it, securing the Rimfire vision scope and the infrared scope last before slipping on his goggles. With infrared, unless someone was wearing the same tinted goggles he was, no one could see the little red dot that screamed out so brightly to him.

To get his bearings, he followed the dot to the forehead of an overweight man shoving shrimp into his mouth. And then over the heart of a woman seated in a chair, discussing something with a younger woman.

Rhett took out the audio receiver and put in his earbuds. Jarring static came through at first, but as he adjusted the frequency he began to pick up the clanking of silverware and the ting of glasses. Feet were shuffling and doors were closing: he figured he was in the kitchen. He twisted the receiver twenty degrees and adjusted the frequency: he was in a quieter room somewhere on the second floor. He could tell from the way the floors creaked as they were walked on.

Several men were having a conversation about futures and foreign exchange derivatives. In another room, two men talked about NASCAR racing. The two crowds were not the types that typically mingled. At first Rhett guessed Stephanie’s crowd of suck-ups, hoping to curry favor with a member of Congress, had decided to come to the family reunion as well. He thought this was odd until he heard someone discussing what a nice presentation they had had earlier and realized that the Willard Estate rented itself to several parties at the same time.

Moving the receiver over every room in the house he found a clear demarcation between the north side of the house and the south side, the north being Stephanie’s party. He focused his attention there.

In the corner of the room, among a group of men speaking with her, Stephanie was smiling with a glass of wine in her hand.

Rhett took out a single round and loaded the rifle.

CHAPTER 9

The infrared dot hovered over her left breast: he didn’t want her to suffer and didn’t want a closed casket.

Out of nowhere, Stephanie turned and bent down. Rhett pushed a button on the side of the goggles and they switched to normal view. On the floor next to her, a young girl with a scrape on her knee was crying. Stephanie ignored everyone and got a wet napkin. She spoke with someone near the front who soon provided her with a Band-Aid.

Stephanie kneeled in front of the child again and cleaned the small scrape on her knee before placing the Band-Aid, and sealing it with a kiss. The girl hugged her and Stephanie spoke to her a while, asking her what television shows she enjoyed and what she wanted to do when she grew up.

She stood and turned back to the group of men that were speaking with her. Rhett flipped on the infrared again. For a long moment he did nothing but stare at the red dot prominent on her chest.

He switched off the infrared and looked at her. She was smiling, pink lips spread across perfect teeth. Though she was certainly beautiful by conventional standards, there was something else about her. It was that hidden pain that made Rhett want to throw his arms around her and protect her.

He lowered the rifle, took it apart, and put it in the backpack. Rhett took out his phone and opened the black app. He texted two words: Fuck you.

The reply came quickly, as if the Messenger were expecting it:

Contract given to someone else. Cease activities.

Rhett looked up to the house and an image flashed in his mind: Stephanie on the floor with her brains spattered against clean carpet. He thought of her funeral and the little girl she had helped standing by her closed casket.

He stood and walked toward the building, tossing the backpack into a trash bin outside.

The interior was immaculate, with high ceilings and a waitstaff cycling around with hors d’oeuvre and champagne. Men in suits hung around in a separate room smoking cigars. He received odd stares as he walked through in hiking gear, and he smiled cordially and nodded hello to a few people that snubbed him.

He made his way to the north side of the building where Stephanie stood across the room. He approached her. She noticed him and smiled.

“Lemme see,” Rhett said, “Stephanie, right?”

“Yes. Have we met?”

“A long time ago. We’re second cousins actually. Hey, my mama would get a big kick outta meeting you.” He dipped into a slight drawl. “She sees you on TV and says she’s your aunt to anyone that’ll listen.”

“That’s cute. I’d love to meet her.”

“Thanks, she’s right over here.” They began walking. “I gotta tell you, though, she’s losing it a little. She may ask you the same question fifty times.”

“That’s not a problem. I went through that with my mother as well. Is it Alzheimer’s?”

As soon as they had turned a corner toward the kitchen, Rhett put his hand over her mouth and pulled her down the hall. A bathroom was to the right. She struggled and tried to scream as he dragged her in and shut the door.

“Shh,” he said, pinning her against the door. “We have some things we need to discuss. But if you scream, I can’t discuss them with you. I’m going to remove my hand so we can talk. If you scream, I’ll have to knock you unconscious and take you somewhere else so we can have this conversation. Do you understand?” She nodded. “And you’re not going to scream when I remove my hand, right?” She hesitated. “Right?” She nodded.

Slowly, he removed his hand. She was breathing heavily and a strand of hair had fallen down over her eyes. Rhett backed away just a little in an attempt to calm her.

“I have money. You can have it if you just—”

“You need to listen,” he said, “and not speak. You’re in danger. You need to get on a plane out of the country. Use that money you just mentioned and disappear. I don’t know how long you’ll have to be gone for but you have to leave tonight.”

“Who are you?” she said, her hand inching for the doorknob behind her.

“Don’t do that.” Her hand stopped. “If you want to live, you need to leave the country tonight.”

“Why? What’re you going to do?”

“I’m not going to do anything. It’s not me you need to worry about.”

“Please, look, I have a—”

The doorknob turned and there was a knock.

“Occupied,” Rhett said loudly.

Stephanie said, “They’re right outside. There’s no other way out. They’ll see your face.”

Rhett exhaled. He took out his phone and opened the app, clicking on her dossier. He held the phone up to her so she could read.

“What is this?” she said.

“It’s the contract for your life. I was hired to kill you.” She began struggling again. Rhett pressed his body against hers. “I’m not going to do it, listen to me, I’m not going to do it. But someone else will. That’s why you need to leave.”

“What the hell is this? Are you some stalker?”

“You need to listen to me very carefully,” he said, staring into her eyes, his voice flat and serious, “because no one else is going to warn you: you have a contract out on your life. The agency that handles the contracts has sent someone else. They probably sent someone else when they sent me. He could already be here. You need to leave the country.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie?”

A voice came from outside, “You almost done in there?”

“Just a second,” Rhett shouted.

“You’re crazy. You don’t know the difference between lying and the truth.”

Rhett looked into her eyes and saw that she wasn’t going to budge. He let her go. She spun around and opened the door and ran outside. An older man was standing out in the hallway. Stephanie was about to say something to him when she turned to look in the bathroom: it was empty. She looked down the hallway. No one was there.

“You all right, dear?” the old man said.

“Fine, fine. Thanks.”

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I think…I maybe did.”

June 30th

I don’t remember much about those years spent in training. I remember that they made me a man. I had signed a liability waiver and was told by some of the other members of the class that they had us sign because every year, they had one death. They would only allow six students into this program and it had a fifty-percent attrition rate. So that left three of us. Of those three, one would likely die. Leaving only two in a graduating class.

We were trained in everything. Much of it I didn’t see how we could use. Facial drawing, how to follow someone without being seen, high-speed driving, martial arts with an emphasis on pressure-point fighting, lock picking…the list goes on and on. But the bulk of the day was spent on physical conditioning and weapons. The weapons training seemed to mimic history. We began with bare hands, and then moved on to simple weapons like the staff, and then the knife, swords and spears. By the time we got to guns, we thought we were deadly. But we had no idea what deadly was until we met the arms master.

He was lean and muscular with hair that came down to his shoulders. All of us, including the women, had to shave bald and it was surprising that they’d let someone grow their hair out. He spoke with a French accent and rumor was he came from French intelligence.

The first time we met the arms master, the title a moniker of his choosing, we were taken out to the forest. Several targets were set up hundreds of yards out, far enough that we could barely see them. The arms master laid several firearms on the ground. “Count,” he said. He took the rifle first and fired several rounds; then he took two pistols and fired simultaneously. Then a submachine gun that seemed to fire a hundred rounds before you could blink. “How many?” he said. One of the students said, “Fifty-six.” I had counted that many as well so I agreed.

He walked us to the targets. The bullets had obliterated the head and heart and touched nowhere else. “Count.” We quickly counted the holes. There were exactly fifty-six.

The arms master looked us over. “My name is Gustav, and I will show you how to kill people.”

CHAPTER 10

It was nearly 9:00 p.m. when Rhett saw a car drop Stephanie off at her condo. Her husband wasn’t with her and he hadn’t seen him at the family reunion either. She said something to the driver and he got out and walked her to the door. She turned off her alarm and went inside.

Rhett sat on the roof of the building across from her again. He had fished out his backpack from the trash and had the receiver set up, the sound of high heels on hardwood filling his ears. Stephanie closed all the blinds except for the one on the top floor. He saw her move in and out of view a few times before she appeared in workout gear with a small towel.

A van pulled up on the street below. It was white with a logo on the side. Rhett watched it. The driver exited and checked a few things in the cargo hold before returning to the driver’s seat. The van was double-parked. Rhett reassembled his rifle and peered at the driver through the scope. He went back up to the house and saw Stephanie on a treadmill upstairs. At the van, the driver was out now and smoking a cigarette. Rhett flipped on the laser scope, a small red dot appearing on the man’s throat.

The driver’s cell phone rang.

“Hello…yeah…no I’m here now. K…K…I’ll just leave it. Bye.”

Rhett followed the driver as he went to the back of the van and pulled out a box. He began walking on the sidewalk…and past Stephanie’s condo. He went to a neighboring home and left the box on the doorstep with a Sticky Note on the door. After getting back into the van, he pulled away and went up the street. Rhett lowered the rifle.

He opened his phone and checked the black app: there were no texts from the Messenger.

He leaned back in the folding chair he had brought with him and glanced up to the moon. A slit of light in a black sky with a few clouds hovering around it. The night air was cold, at least for someone used to a tropical island, and he was glad he wouldn’t be doing this anymore. He knew the terms: once a contract is denied, you do not receive any others. He was officially retired.

His father had worked in a warehouse pulling fifteen-hour days six days a week. He worked so much that he developed ulcers and hypertension. He died at forty-two of a massive heart attack. Work literally killed him. Rhett had promised himself he would never be like that. He thought regular, soul-killing jobs were what caused the rampant unhappiness, alcoholism, corruption, and drug use that was pulling civilization down in the familiar pattern that has repeated throughout history. He’d chosen a different path. And now retired at thirty-four with all the money he could ever want, he had no idea what he would do.

He reached down to the water bottle on the floor and caught something slide out of the top window of the house next door. He recognized it immediately: the extended barrel of an FR F2 sniper rifle: the standard sniper weapon of the French military.

Rhett grabbed his rifle and aimed. Without time to flip on the scope, he let out one shot, the spit hardly more than a whisper. It struck the barrel, blowing off part of it and leaving jagged metal in its place.

The FR F2 let out a shot that echoed up and down the street. It burst through the window of Stephanie’s workout room and went wide by about nine inches, the round embedding itself in the wall rather than in the back of her skull.

A man glanced out the window, short-cropped hair and a leather jacket. Their eyes locked before he disappeared into the house.

Rhett was on his feet, dropping the rifle and pulling out his .22, which he kept tucked in his waistband. He sprinted down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. The front door of the home next door was open and Rhett ran inside.

The house was quiet. He went gun first into the living room and swung left and right before heading into the kitchen and standing beside the back door. He glanced out the window but didn’t see anyone. Just then he heard footsteps behind him. The man with the rifle dashed down the stairs.

Rhett fired as the man jumped into the hallway. He fired again at the man’s foot but it stepped away and he missed.

Rhett ran around the corner to find the broken barrel pointed at his chest. He leapt backward as the round went off and grazed his chest, tearing away a streak of clothing and leaving a thread of blood in its place.

Rhett shoved his back against the wall and glanced quickly around the corner. The man vanished into a room and Rhett followed.

Rhett glanced in, keeping his head near the floor where the man’s weapon was unlikely to be pointed. A window was open over the bathtub and its screen had been kicked out. Rhett ran to the back door and opened it as the man was hopping over a fence. He held up his pistol but it was too late.

The man had jumped into the neighboring yard, causing a dog to start barking. The patio’s glass door slid open and a woman stepped outside. She screamed as the man ran past her and into her house.

Gripping his pistol Rhett followed him and, running past the woman, dashed through her home. He reached the sidewalk just as a late-model Camaro was peeling out and speeding down the street. He aimed for one of the back tires, but by now the entire neighborhood had lurked out onto the sidewalks, and kids were standing around.

He replaced his weapon and dashed upstairs to retrieve his gear before heading down the sidewalk and disappearing into the crowd.

CHAPTER 11

At two in the morning, Isaac Rhett drove by the condo of Paul and Stephanie Johnson and glanced inside. The police had left hours ago and the couple had all the blinds drawn. Rhett parked up the street and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

He put them down on the passenger seat and turned on his phone, which was connected to the car stereo. Pulling up iTunes, he played a Sinatra song and waited.

The thought of simply leaving crossed his mind. She had gotten the police involved and her husband was now aware of what was going on. Maybe she would be okay…As soon as he thought it he knew it was ridiculous. If someone was determined to kill another person, there was nothing that other person could do but run.

Rhett stepped out of the car and walked around the block to the back of the condo. Another home lay in between him and the Johnson’s condo so he snuck through the small yard and hopped the fence.

The Johnson’s had an alarm but it was a simple laser connection between two nodes. Rhett took out a small, wallet-sized carrying case from his back pocket. It held lock picks, a drill the size of a pen, and a blow dart gun that was even smaller. He removed a small piece of aluminum foil and some silly putty. Placing the foil over the putty, he stuck it to one of the nodes, breaking the connection, but reflecting the top node back on itself so the system read that it was still activated.

From there, he used two simple metal prongs and picked both the top and bottom lock.

The house was quiet and warm as he stepped in and shut the door. He was surprised Stephanie had stayed: most people would’ve left for a friend’s house or a hotel. Then again, maybe the police had convinced her she wasn’t the intended target, that it was some sort of drive-by shooting or teenagers messing around.

He walked through the kitchen and came out into the spacious living room with the white furniture. Glancing at the mantle and the decorations, he noticed there wasn’t a single picture of Stephanie and Paul together. Not one. A wave of pity overwhelmed him, for all the love that she gave and the great nothing she received in return.

Gingerly, he made his way up the stairs to the bedrooms. He walked close to the wall on the side of the stairs to avoid making noise. At the top, he turned left toward two rooms and glanced into one: it was the master bedroom. The bed was empty. He stepped inside and wondered if he had been wrong about her still being here when he heard a toilet flush and then running water. A door opened behind him. He quickly perched in the corner as Stephanie walked in and got into bed.

Moonlight was the only illumination but it was enough for him to see her clearly. Her make-up had been removed and her hair was pulled back and held in place with a scrunchy.

He stepped out from the corner and sat down on her bed.

She jumped and he placed his hand over her mouth, forcing her back down. He held his finger to her lips. “I hate to say ‘I told you so’ but…”

“My husband will be home soon,” she mumbled underneath his palm.

He removed his hand. “No, he won’t.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I was the one that warned you, remember?”

“How do I know it wasn’t you that shot at me?”

“If I wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t have seen me coming.” He glanced down the hall. “They’ll be back soon.”

“Who? Who will be back soon? What the fuck is going on?”

“You have a contract out on your life. It was given to me at first and now someone else has it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I never know.”

“So you’re a hitman?”

“Kind of. But I’m retired.” He stood up and walked to the window, opening the blinds just enough to peer out into the street. “I wouldn’t reach for the phone. The cops couldn’t get here in time if I wanted to kill you.”

“If you don’t want to kill me…what do you want?”

“Not that,” he said, sensing the anxiety in her voice. “I’m not a rapist. But they are. If they catch you alone, they’ll rape you, rob you, and then slit your throat. They failed once so they’ll want to be up close and personal next time to make sure you’re actually dead.”

She sat up in bed, panic in her voice. “I haven’t done anything. I don’t deserve this.”

“Deserve has nothing to do with it.” He turned away from the window and sat in a chair near the bed. “You need to leave the country. Tonight. Take your husband—”

“My husband’s left. Permanently. He’s moving in with somebody else.”

He was quiet a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I kicked him out. But I want you to talk to the police. To explain what’s going on so they can help me.”

“It wouldn’t do any good.”

“But I’d like you to try.”

“No.”

She hesitated. “You’re wanted somewhere, aren’t you? That’s why you’re scared of the cops.”

“I’m not scared of the police. Just cautious. These people hand out fifty and hundred thousand dollar bribes like candy. That can buy a lot of loyalty.”

“Are you saying we can’t trust the police?”

“You can’t trust anybody,” he said, standing. “Not even me.” He began walking toward the door and stopped. “I’ve done all I’m going to do,” he said softly. “You can get out of the country or not, but if you stay, you’re going to die. You can’t stop them.”

CHAPTER 12

Vanessa Hailstorm parked her car on Greenstone Avenue and stepped out into the chill morning air. She caught a reflection of herself in the car window, the scar that came up over her collarbone to her neck. She straightened her shirt in an attempt to minimize its appearance.

Washington, DC, was one of her favorite cities to visit. As a kid, her father would bring her here and they’d watch a session of Congress or see the Supreme Court take oral arguments on an issue. They snapped photos of what was then called Embassy Row and the White House and she would brag to all her friends back home in Lincoln, Nebraska.

She had wondered for a long time why she and her father, a single dad, traveled so much. It wasn’t until she was sixteen that he opened up to her and told her the reason: his job was to kill people. Taking her along was how he spent time with her.

Vanessa walked down the street and saw a few kids bundled up in jackets and scarves. The street was a mix of residential and commercial and the only thing of note was a train station nearby. A woman was in front of a little convenience store with a sign asking for help. Next to her was a young girl, probably nine or ten. She was dirty but was playing with a worn-out doll on the bare cement and looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. Vanessa’s eyes locked with the mother’s. As she passed by, she said, “Try getting a job.”

As Vanessa walked through the neighborhood and watched the middle-class homes, she peered into the windows: it always fascinated her what people did when they thought nobody else was watching.

She turned into a quaint-looking home with a chainlink fence and walked to the porch. The home appeared like any other except that the lawn was exceptionally well manicured and the one tree on the property, which blocked the view into the living room window, was perfectly trimmed.

Next to the door was a small black box with a keyhole. Vanessa took out her keychain and inserted a small key. The box opened to reveal a card slider with a red blinking light above it. She took a card out from her purse and slid it through. The red light turned green, and the front door clicked open.

Inside, the home was like any other on this street as well, except that it was just a little too clean. The mantle had several photos of families at vacation spots like lakes and Mt. Rushmore. The kitchen was stocked with plates and glasses and silverware that was dusted once a week to give the appearance of use. The living room had decent furniture with working satellite television. The bedrooms were packed full of clothes. None of which was ever used by anyone.

Vanessa walked to a door in the kitchen. Though it appeared to be wood, she knew it was three inches of soundproofed steel. Another black box was next to this door and she repeated the process from outside.

A set of stairs, leading up to the top floor of the house, was revealed: it was the only entrance to that floor. As she took the stairs, the door shut behind her. Waiting at the top was a man in a suit.

“You’re late,” he said. “But since you’re the cutest one here I can forgive you.”

“Up yours, Dave,” she said, brushing past him and into the war room.

The war room, named by the three staff that worked here daily, was little more than a conference table, a white board that was actually transparent and doubled as a monitor for the laptop connected to the table, and a small sink with a coffee maker next to it. The two men she had come to see were already here: Mitchell Phelps and Santos Aras. Santos looked suave in what Vanessa guessed was an Armani suit. Phelps by comparison was disheveled and she could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Gentlemen,” she said, taking off her coat and draping it over the back of a chair.

“I don’t like being kept waiting,” Phelps said. “If you’re gonna call a meeting, call a damn meeting and be here on time.”

“What’s the matter, Mitch? Couldn’t take your dick out of your mistress long enough to stop by and see us?”

Though he clenched and unclenched his jaw several times, and the vein in his forehead swelled, he didn’t say anything.

“Gentlemen, I needed to meet with you because we have a problem.”

Santos said, “We heard about the botched attempt on the congresswoman. What kind of rinky-dink you running here exactly?”

“She’ll be taken care of soon enough. It was just a minor hiccup.”

“If it was just a hiccup, then why the meeting?”

“Because we have a bigger problem. One of our magicians has left…and is helping the congresswoman.”

“What do you mean ‘helping’?”

“He’s informed her of the contract and advised her to flee the country.”

“What the fuck? Are you shitting me? One of our magicians is helping a mark?”

“It surprised all of us. He’d been having some trouble for a while. Issues of guilt and remorse. We should have spotted this particular problem a long time ago and dealt with it then.”

“Do you have any fucking idea how much money is spent training these sonsabitches?” Phelps said.

“The loss of a magician—any of them—is a blow, but it’s not unexpected. We calculate for collateral damage.”

Santos shook his head. “You’re talking about a magician getting killed, which is fine and we account for that. This is different. I’ve never heard of this happening.”

“No, it hasn’t happened before. Their conditioning typically, oh, what’s the word, abolishes, I guess, their sense of guilt over what they’re doing. I don’t know if we were thorough enough with him.”

“Who is he?”

“Isaac Hampton Rhett. His soubriquet is Houdini.”

“What did he have access to?”

“Very little. We expose almost nothing to the magicians.”

“Almost?”

Vanessa folded her arms. “Inevitably they come to find out some things about Starlight and what we do.”

The men were silent a moment.

“Quit bein’ coy,” Phelps said. “What things?”

“He may or may not know the identity of the Messenger.”

In a moment, Phelps stepped within inches of her face. She could smell his lunch on his breath mixed with the alcohol and it disgusted her. “Do you know what he’s going to do if this information is released? If the public finds out what we’ve been doing here? We’re not talking defunding, we’re talking prison. For all of us. Maybe even the death penalty.”

“Mr. Phelps, if you don’t remove yourself from my personal space, I am going to Taser you in the balls.”

Phelps didn’t move until he heard the small electric discharge of the Taser she had slipped out of her purse. She jabbed it forward but didn’t let it touch his genitals. He grimaced and took a few steps backward.

Santos grinned sadistically. “This is your mess, Vanessa. Fix it. Now.”

As the men left the room, Vanessa sighed and sat down at the conference table. She hit a few keys on the laptop and an image of Rhett flickered to life on the transparent board at the front of the room. She stared at it a while and then whispered under her breath, “What the hell are you doing?”

CHAPTER 13

After two days spent in New York, seeing the sights and enjoying the restaurants, Rhett was ready to return home. He missed the sunshine and the salty breezes of Saint Thomas. The people on the mainland were too driven. You could sense their stress and anxiety and it added to your own. On the island, everything moved more slowly and less purposefully. The air even seemed more relaxed.

Rhett was standing in a bathrobe by the hotel-room bed when his phone buzzed. It was a number he didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Yes, Mr. Thompson, this is the front desk. I hope you don’t mind that we’ve called your personal phone, but I have a note here that says we were to call you about any visitors and that you left your cell number just in case.”

“Yeah, I did say that. Who’s the visitor?”

“Well it was your brother and I’m afraid he’s already on his way up. He wanted it to be a surprise since you’re here to see him, but I figured I better check with you. The line to your room doesn’t seem to be working. Rest assured we have a technician—”

Rhett hung up and dove for the phone at the edge of the bed…the line was dead. He sprinted for the bathroom just as the first shot tore through the door and entered a pillow, several feathers bouncing into the air and drifting slowly to the carpet.

Rhett climbed into the tub. He heard several more spits before the room’s door broke open, somebody stepping inside and shutting it behind them. He couldn’t see the figure and he wasn’t sure whether it was a single person. He closed his eyes and listened…he could only hear one set of breaths.

Tilting his head around the corner, he could see through the space between the door and wall. A man in a leather jacket was flipping through the clothes on his bed, which he had been about to pack. On the nightstand was the .22 he always carried with him. The man noticed it and strode over. He dismantled the weapon in a couple of seconds and threw the pieces on the floor.

The man, his pistol aimed low, walked gingerly to the sliding closet door. He fired two rounds into each panel and then swung open the door as he ducked low to the ground.

Finding nothing inside, he circled the room with his eyes until he spotted the bathroom.

The man approached slowly, trying to see every angle in the bathroom. The way the tub was placed, he couldn’t see much more than the toilet. Rhett leaned back in the tub, careful not to touch the shower curtain.

The man stepped into the bathroom, opening the door all the way to ensure nobody hid behind it. His vision landed on the mirror, and his eyes met Rhett’s in the reflection.

The man moved to swing the gun around when Rhett kicked out into the door. The edge hit him on the nose and snapped his head back. Rhett sprang out of the tub.

The man was pressed against the sink, both of Rhett’s hands on the weapon as it fired two rounds into the wall. Rhett head-butted him in the bridge of his nose and then let go of the weapon with one hand long enough to bash his elbow into the man’s chin. His grip on the gun loosened and it fell to the floor.

Rhett reached down for it and the man came up with a knee, which Rhett blocked with his elbow. He stood as the man straight punched into his face several times, Rhett parrying the blows or knocking them away with the palms of his hands.

The man kicked at Rhett’s groin and then his knee and then tried to get him in an arm lock. Rhett twisted around, ending up behind him, and elbowed him in the back of the head, sending the intruder’s head into the wall.

The man spun with an elbow. Rhett blocked it with his forearm. Instantly, the man spun in the other direction with his other elbow and Rhett ducked, coming back up with two sharp blows into his kidneys.

The man donkey kicked behind him, catching Rhett in the groin so that Rhett bent over and was caught with a palm to the face. This sent him flying back into the counter.

The man went for a pistol that was tucked into a holster at his side. Rhett grabbed the nearest thing to him, a glass toothbrush holder, and flung it at the man with everything he had. Catching him in the face and cutting his cheek open, Rhett jumped and impacted against the man’s chest with both feet.

His opponent hit the wall hard as Rhett leapt to his feet. He swung with an easy left, which the man grabbed and twisted, trying for another arm lock. With his other hand, Rhett thrust out with a spear-hand blow, feeling the crunch of the man’s windpipe underneath his fingers.

He gasped for air and Rhett began delivering blow after blow to his chin, throat, and chest. He stomped downward onto the man’s knee, cracking it, and toppling him over. Rhett mounted him and dropped down with elbows onto his face until it was nothing but a spongy red mess.

He sat up, breathing hard.

“Why?” he said. The man didn’t reply so Rhett climbed off him and found the gun on the bathroom floor. He fired one round into the man’s knee and then bent down and stuck his thumb into the small hole, pulling at the wound until it tore.

The man screamed.

“Why?” Rhett said again. The man didn’t respond and Rhett aimed the weapon at his genitals. “I promise you, it’s more painful there.”

The man, blood caked into his eyes, grinned. “You talk too much.”

He whipped out a blade concealed in his sleeve and lunged at Rhett.

Rhett absorbed the forward momentum of his arm and twisted it around with one hand, sending the blade back into the man’s eye. As he screamed, blood spattered over the carpet and walls. Rhett stood and pinned him against the floor, placing his foot on the hilt of the knife.

“Tell me why, now.”

The man was near passing out. “They’re gonna have some fun with your mark. Six of ’em. They’re gonna make her husband watch before they turn her inside out. Maybe they’ll fuck him too.”

“You telling me she didn’t leave? She’s still here?”

There was no response. Rhett pushed on the knife, forcing it down another quarter of an inch. The man shrieked so loudly it echoed in the room.

“Why? What’s so important about her?” Rhett demanded.

The man was delirious from pain and didn’t say anything. He was clawing at the foot, trying to get at the knife that was sticking out of his eyeball. Rhett removed his foot and walked over to the bed. He slipped on a pair of clothes, throwing the rest of it into his suitcase. He looked to the man one more time before heading out the door.

CHAPTER 14

Rhett walked into the terminal at JFK and stood in the TSA line to get screened. He pulled out a false identification for a Robert K. Adelman along with his boarding pass. The airport was packed with travelers though he couldn’t tell why. It was just another Tuesday and no holidays were on the horizon.

He exhaled loudly as he slipped off his shoes and put them in a tray.

Starlight never sent more than one agent at a time. If the man was telling the truth and they had sent six, it meant it was war. Why would one target, a minor congresswoman, be so important? They’d had far more significant targets in the past, and each time only one agent was dispatched. Something wasn’t right.

Rhett noticed a young couple in line, holding hands until the last moment before they had to separate and go into different metal detectors. They held hands again on the other side. He pictured Stephanie, an image forcing its way into his mind: her broken and nude body lying on a floor. Her husband tied up in the corner, weeping at the sight of six men gang-raping and torturing his wife.

The man wasn’t exaggerating about turning her inside out. When Starlight needed to send a message, no message was more brutal. They never asked Rhett for that kind of wet work because they knew he would decline, but he had heard rumors about the brutality.

One mark they had tied upside down and used a blowtorch on for over an hour until every inch of skin had peeled off his body. They had left him there and he died several days later from infection. The man had been a war criminal—a common occupation for Starlight contracts—but still, he had a family. A family that had no idea who he had been in a previous life, and who would never know what had happened to him.

The family had become destitute without him. The mother, partially disabled from a genetic disorder affecting her spine, couldn’t work more than a part-time job. With three children to feed, she had gone on government assistance but couldn’t afford to keep a car to get the children to school.

Rhett had visited the family, pretending to be an attorney. He claimed her husband had left a decent estate and didn’t want her to know about it. It was only a contingency in case something like this ever happened. The estate consisted of twenty-five thousand dollars and a used car.

Rhett wondered if Starlight had ever found out about his visit to them. He doubted it, as they never followed up with survivors after a contract had been completed. The man deserved to die, but Starlight never considered the families. They were always left to fend for themselves.

“Sir, your ID please.”

Rhett noticed for the first time that the line was gone and it was his turn. He glanced down to the ID and then to the couple on the other side walking down the corridor to their plane. He put the ID back in his pocket and turned around without a word, heading out of the terminal.

He opened the driver’s side door of the first car he saw, a Mitsubishi. The driver was staring at Rhett with his mouth open when Rhett opened the door and pulled him out. The man resisted. Rhett forced him to the ground with a sweep.

“Report it stolen. They’ll find it abandoned.”

He jumped into the car, and drove off.

CHAPTER 15

Stephanie Johnson paid for her items at Neiman Marcus and glanced to the bodyguard that stood by her side. He was far enough away that he didn’t crowd her space and in fact Stephanie had forgotten that he was with her until just now. At a hundred and fifty an hour, she expected nothing less.

She had tried to strike up a conversation with him about other people he had guarded but he had replied, “I’m here to save your life. Not be your friend.”

Stephanie had considered requesting another one, but he was so professional and on top of things that she decided she could take a little rudeness in exchange for ability.

As they left the store and hailed a cab, Stephanie called her husband’s cell.

“What do you want?”

“I was just checking in on you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Paul, I was shot at.”

“They said it could’ve been a drive-by at the wrong house.”

“This is New York. How many drive-bys do you hear about?”

“Look I’m busy. Did you need something?”

She exhaled. “I remember when we were inseparable. Now some psycho tries to kill me and you couldn’t care less.”

“You’re the one that wants the divorce, not me.”

“Did you sign the paperwork?”

“Yeah, I signed it. I sent it back to your attorney and he said it would be submitted today. So I guess I’m free.”

“You’re free? You’re free, you fucking asshole?”

“Hey fuck you. I was a great husband. You’re the one that drove me away. I did everything right.”

She climbed into the cab, the bodyguard getting in beside her. “Goodbye, Paul. I hope you find what it is you’re looking for.”

“Whatever.”

She hung up and replaced the phone in her pocket. Absently staring out the window, she watched the crowds. Nameless and faceless, they walked without noticing each other. As if they were all alone in a city packed with people.

She hadn’t really thought about what she was going to do now that the marriage was over. Her goal of the divorce had so consumed her that she didn’t have the mental energy to think about anything else. At the realization that she could do whatever she wanted now, she perked up a little and a grin came over her face.

“I want to go Hawaii,” she told her bodyguard. “I don’t think I need you to come with me there.”

“Your contract states I go where you go.”

She shrugged. “Do you have a family? Someone that’s going to wonder where you are?”

“No.”

Silence consumed the cab for another twenty minutes until they arrived at her friend’s condo. Stephanie paid and they headed into the building, toward the elevators.

The condos were upscale and a security guard sat at a booth up front. He nodded to them as they walked past.

The elevator ride, like most of her day, was spent in silence. Stepping off onto the twenty-second floor, they walked down the hallway and rang the doorbell on the nearest door. A woman in a tight black dress, with jewelry over every inch of her manicured and tanned hands, answered.

“Come here, sweetie,” she said, hugging her. “How you holding up?”

“Great actually,” Stephanie said. “I feel relieved. A little sad, but mostly relieved.”

“And who’s this?”

“Thomas. Thomas, this is my friend Cindy. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to speak to her in private.” Before he could protest, she shut the door.

The condo was elegantly decorated, but to Stephanie, it felt like a hotel room. Considering the number of men Cindy had coming through here, maybe that was the look she was going for. They sat and Stephanie ran her fingers over the leopard-print blanket thrown over the white sofa.

“I never liked Paul,” Cindy said. “I didn’t tell you this, but at your wedding, I got the feeling he was hitting on me.”

“I’m sure he was.”

She rose and walked to the kitchen, returning with two glasses of wine. “Can I ask you something personal? Why’d you marry him? You’re ten times smarter than me and I saw he was a sleazeball the first time I met him.”

“I don’t know. It was a combination of loneliness and his charm I guess.”

“Well I hope you skinned him in the divorce.”

“He doesn’t have any money,” she said, sipping her wine. “It was all my money.”

“Well did you at least—”

A loud thump sounded against the door. It was sudden enough that both women looked over. Cindy took another sip of wine and then rose to see what it was. She opened the door but didn’t see anyone out in the hall.

Shutting the door and locking it, she said, “Your bodyguard’s not there.”

“He probably went for a walk or something. I actually need a little break from him.”

“So,” Cindy said, sitting back down, “what were we talking about? Oh yeah, Paul being a piece of shit.”

“I—”

The doorbell rang. Cindy placed her glass down and swore under her breath as she walked to the door and opened it. Outside, several men stood staring at her. The one closest to her wore a suit and was balding with glasses. He smiled as he pushed his way past her.

“Excuse me,” Cindy said, grabbing his shoulder.

The man twisted around and flicked her wrist in a way that sent waves of pain through her. She yelped as another man came up behind her and pressed his hand against her mouth. Once all the men were inside the condo, they shut the door behind them.

“Hello, Congresswoman,” the man with glasses said. “Please sit back down.”

Stephanie watched as the man holding Cindy thrust out his tongue and licked her ear before putting it in his mouth and sucking on it.

“Who are you?” she said, lowering herself back down.

“My name is Caleb. I’m here to spend the afternoon with you.”

She glanced from Cindy back to the man. “What do you want with me?”

He grinned. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? We just want you to die.” He pulled out a thick knife with a serrated edge.

Stephanie flung the wine glass in his face and darted for the balcony. Before she could reach it, the man jumped on top of her as two other men ran over and held her arms and legs. They flipped her around as Caleb cut her blouse off.

Stephanie closed her eyes and screamed. Time seemed to slow. She felt warmth on her face and realized that the men’s grips had loosened. She opened her eyes, and saw that half of Caleb’s head was gone.

One of the men jumped up and immediately fell to the ground as the balcony’s glass doors shattered and rained glass over her. A hole appeared in the man’s neck. The other men scattered, ducking behind furniture and fleeing into the other rooms. Stephanie glanced behind her, out over the balcony.

Rhett peered through the scope as Stephanie’s countenance came into focus. She came out onto the balcony, her face white. She was suffering from shock. Rhett pulled away from her and scanned the condo. Two men were dead: three more were hiding. One was waiting outside the building near the front entrance.

“Come on,” he whispered to himself, “get outta there. Get out.”

Stephanie stood motionless, staring off into space. The other woman in the condo, crying, ran up and grabbed her, pulling her for the door. Rhett saw a pistol rise behind the couch, swing around, and aim for the two women. He fired into the man’s wrist, blowing the hand clean off. The man screamed as Rhett fired another shot into his open mouth, spattering brain matter on the clean walls behind him.

The women got to the door and Rhett lost sight of them as they sprinted down the hall toward the elevators. He fired two more rounds into the condo, aiming at nothing, letting the men know he was still there. Then he left the rifle and ran to the staircase leading down to the street.

By the time Rhett got to the sidewalk, Stephanie and the other woman were running out of the building. The sixth man was leaning against a tree smoking. He saw the women and let them run past him. Slowly, he threw his cigarette on the ground and began to jog behind them. He pulled a firearm out of his waistband.

Rhett pulled out his pistol and readied to fire when he felt an impact like a truck against his back. The wind was knocked out of him and he flew to the ground. Someone was on top of him. He felt the burning sting of a bullet enter his arm and saw the silenced pistol that was pressed against his flesh. Then the pistol was rising toward his face.

Rhett grabbed the gun with both hands. He grunted as he pushed the barrel back toward his attacker. The man forced his entire weight against it, turning it back toward Rhett. The barrel was coming up to his face again. Rhett couldn’t push it away at the angle he was at, but just as the barrel came up to his jaw and the man squeezed the trigger, Rhett twisted his head away. The round shot into the sidewalk, splintering bits of concrete into his face, and ricocheted into the road, hitting a passing car. The car stopped.

Rhett wrapped his legs around the man’s waist and pulled him down so his head was chest-level with him. He reached down and thrust his thumb into the man’s eye as far as it would go, popping the eyeball out of the socket.

The man screamed and loosened his grip on the pistol. Rhett forced it down, and fired. The round entered at the top of the skull and lodged in the man’s mouth. Rhett rolled the corpse off himself, running past the crowd that had started to gather and after Stephanie.

CHAPTER 16

Vanessa Hailstorm had been to Paris three times in her life and each time she was in and out so fast she hardly had the chance to grab a meal at a restaurant. Her French was decent, though, having been worked on in the quiet town of Matane, Quebec, one of her favorite vacation spots.

A driver waited for her in a small European car and she slipped into the backseat without a word. They began to drive.

“Do you wish to stop and eat somewhere first, mademoiselle?”

“No, just straight to the prison please.”

The neighborhoods were bustling and pleasant to look at but the weather always seemed gray. It was the same each time she visited. The weather, to her, was the most important part of a city and she couldn’t imagine moving here as many young women her age dreamed of doing.

The La Santé prison was the most famous in all of France and had housed many infamous criminals and terrorists, including Guillaume Apollinaire, the poet and playwright who was suspected of aiding in the theft of the Mona Lisa from the Louvre.

The exterior of the prison was intimidating but not entirely unpleasant and nothing compared to the dilapidated interior where multiple inmates were crowded into cells designed for only one. Vanessa stared at the exterior gate a while and then exhaled. “Wait for me here.”

She entered through the gates and showed her credentials, which identified her as a mid-level bureaucrat with the United States Department of Homeland Security. She cleared several other gates and was amazed how anachronistic the prison was. It could have been transported back two hundred years and no one would have been able to tell the difference.

She was escorted to a small room with a table and several chairs. As she sat and checked her emails, the noise of the prison jangled all around her. It was far louder than one would expect and she wondered how people slept through it.

Before long a metal door opened across the room. Two guards stepped through, a chained prisoner between them. He had some sort of contraption around his mouth and nose to prevent him from spitting. It was leather and metal and made him look deformed.

The man was sat in front of her before the two guards took their spots on the wall behind him.

“Vous pouvez partir maintenant,” she said. The guards looked to each other, and then left through the door they had come in from.

“Préférez-vous anglais ou français?”

“I like English,” the man hissed. At first Vanessa thought he did it on purpose but could see now that the leather strap covered only half his mouth, making it sound as if he dragged the last letters of his words out.

“Why do you like English?”

“It has four hundred thousand live words and seven hundred thousand dead ones. It is the only language whose dead words outnumber its live ones. It is constantly adapting.”

“Is that what you do?” she said. “Adapt?”

“There is nothing else.”

She exhaled and pulled out a cigarette from her purse, lighting it. She took one puff and then leaned over, placing the butt into the man’s lips.

“I have your real name as Gustav Pierre Fabrice. Is that correct?”

“Very good. You are not from Homeland Security, are you?”

“No. Do you know who I’m with?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the work we do?”

“I worked for your predecessors, long ago.”

“I’m here to make you a one-time offer.” She leaned in close. “One time. Right now.”

“I’m all ears,” he said, attempting to grin but unable to do so.

“I already know you worked for us once. Well, a subsidiary of ours. I read your file. It’s impressive.”

“We must go with our strengths.”

“Here’s my concern: you’ve been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. If I were to secure your release, I’m afraid the outcome would be unpredictable.”

“You have people killed for money and I’m the one who’s crazy?”

“I’m serious, Mr. Fabrice.”

“So am I. You can’t be sane and be in this business. But your concerns are unfounded. I am currently taking Aripiprazole. It gives me clarity.”

“Okay, assuming you’re going to stay on your medication, I have another concern: your last mark.”

“What about him?”

“He was on a bus and you set off explosives near the back of the bus. There were no survivors. Our agency is a scalpel, not a hammer.”

“I understand. That particular client had asked for a public display, so I gave them a public display.”

“Who was the client?”

“The PLO. They pay well and have many contracts. Perhaps it’s a resource you have not tapped as yet.”

“We’re not terrorists. What we do, we do for our country.”

He shrugged. “As they say, if you say so.”

She leaned back in her seat, considering him. “This is a big risk on our part. I don’t know if you’re worth it.”

“May I ask a question now, mademoiselle? Exactly how did you find me?”

She pulled out a photo and slid it on the table: it was of Isaac Rhett. “I spoke with our agents. I asked them who they thought the best in their field was. Number two, was him,” she said, tapping the photo. “Number one, was you.”

“I’m flattered.” He looked to the photo. “Is this the mark?”

“Yes. And a woman.”

“My standard fee is one million per mark.”

“Considering we’re getting you out of a life sentence, your standard fee is now one hundred thousand per mark.”

He exhaled and swore in French. “I don’t work for pennies.”

“Very well,” she said, taking the photo and putting it back in her purse. “It’s been…interesting meeting you. Have a good life.” She stood.

“Wait…” He swore again. “I will do it.”

She sat back down. “If you do not, and you flee, I promise you we will make the bounty on your head so high the penguins in Antarctica will be trying to kill you.”

He laughed. “That’s cute. Now, I need ten men, reliable men, and several military-grade items that I assume will not be difficult for you to procure. I will also need a credit line, two passports, and photo identifications, as well as—”

“Hold on, stop. I’ll send someone to pick you up when you’re released. You can give them a list.”

He bowed his head. As Vanessa walked out, he said, “Mademoiselle, I appreciate your trust.”

“I don’t trust you. But I need you. Just do your job and we won’t have any problems.”

CHAPTER 17

Rhett sat across the street from the police precinct at a café and sipped cappuccino. Stephanie and her friend had run down several blocks before they happened to find a policeman stopped at an intersection. The officer had taken them in. The man that had been chasing them wasn’t anywhere to be found and Rhett would glance into all the windows of the surrounding buildings every few minutes.

It was soon late in the afternoon when Rhett ordered lunch. The waitress was pleasant and didn’t say anything about the fact that he had sat there for several hours. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure she’d noticed. It was amazing how little people noted about their surroundings.

Rhett saw two men pull up to the precinct. FBI. He could always tell because they tended to dress similarly: a ridiculous stay over from the days of J. Edgar Hoover, who insisted they wear white shirts and black suits no matter what they were doing.

The feds being involved complicated things. They would secure Stephanie away, probably in some safe-house in a nearby state, and he would have to get to her before Starlight could send someone in: they had the ability to forge any credential. If Stephanie were his mark, he would simply be given FBI identification—or any ID that would get him into the house—and he would give Stephanie an injection of potassium, which would mimic cardiac arrest.

Rhett paid for his lunch and went across the street. He took a small tracking device called a Spider—so named because of its eight small attachment hooks—and placed it on the rear bumper of the feds’ car. He then went to his own car, something he rented from Enterprise, and turned on the radio as he waited for them to come out.

Shortly after the feds had arrived, the two men were escorting Stephanie out of the precinct and to their car. Rhett followed them as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

Driving cautiously, Rhett could see that they were using basic tailing maneuvers. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He just rotated back and forth between several cars and stayed out of view of the rearview mirror.

The car eventually stopped at a hotel and one of the men went in. He came back out and nodded to the other man, who helped Stephanie from the car. Rhett thought it unusual that they would take her to a hotel rather than directly to the airport. He wondered why…

“Shit,” he said under his breath.

He jumped out of the car and ran around to the back of the hotel. A service door was propped open with a garbage can and he could hear the cooks shouting in Spanish. He slipped inside.

The kitchen was hot and the cooks looked at him like he was crazy. He simply acted like he needed to be there and said hello to them before walking into the restaurant and then through to the hotel lobby. An elevator dinged down the hall as Stephanie and the men stepped on.

He ran over and watched the small red number above the elevator stop on four. He rushed to the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he got to the fourth floor, he pulled out his .22 and stepped into the hall. Around the corner, a door slammed shut and locked. He ran over and stopped to listen. Unable to hear anything, he went from door to door, placing his ear on the wood.

He heard a groan from one door, and he leaned back, slamming his heal just underneath the doorknob. The door splintered and crashed open. Rhett stepped in gun first. He realized he was pointing it at a nude elderly couple beneath the covers and looked away.

“Sorry, I’m really sorry.”

A scream came from down the hall.

Rhett sprinted out then stopped and listened. A woman was shouting something. It was muffled, like someone was trying to keep her quiet. He ran to the room and kicked the door down, rolling over the carpet and coming up on one knee.

Stephanie was tied to the bed, one of the men standing over her binding a gag over her mouth. Rhett let loose two shots, hitting him just above the eyebrow, and the man toppled over onto the carpet.

Another man stepped out of the bathroom. Their eyes locked. He dove back into the bathroom as Rhett fired three rounds and leapt behind the wall, his back pressed against it. A mirror in front of Rhett allowed him a view into the bathroom. The light was off and he couldn’t tell where the man was.

“You can leave,” Rhett shouted. “I don’t want to take your life. Just come out with your hands behind your head and get down on the floor. I promise you won’t be hurt.”

Silence. Rhett slowly stood, the gun up by his chin. He glanced around the corner and began to make his way out.

The man jumped out of the bathroom with a modified Tec-9 in his hands. Rhett jumped behind the bed as the shots rang out, tearing away bits of plaster and wood from the walls, exploding the television and one of the windows.

Rhett aimed underneath the bed and fired, hitting the man’s ankle. Rhett jumped onto the bed before landing on the man’s back.

The man flipped him off himself and came up with a small, claw-shaped blade in his hand. He swung at Rhett’s face, slicing his cheek, before coming in with a downward blow aimed at his eye. Rhett stepped out of the way and grabbed the man’s wrist. He spun him around using his own weight against him and slammed him headfirst into the wall, leaving a hole.

The man spun and blindly swiped at the air. Rhett elbow locked him as he put his other hand on the back of his neck and bent him low. He began to knee the man in the groin. When the man shifted his groin out of the way, Rhett bent him down farther and kneed his chest and then his face, knocking out several teeth.

The man, blood pouring down his chin, charged for Rhett’s eyes with his free hand. Rhett grabbed his fingers and twisted them upside down and back toward the wrist. He snapped three of them. The man screamed and Rhett pulled the blade from his other hand and stuck it into his throat.

The man fell to his knees, blood raining out of him and over the carpets. The claw was meant to enter and then, because of small reversed hooks, only be pulled out when it could take flesh with it. Rhett ripped it out of his throat and made the wound bigger. The man toppled over, a choking, wet mess and Rhett turned away from him and untied Stephanie.

“We need to go, now.”

CHAPTER 18

Gustav Fabrice saw the light of the setting sun for the first time in six weeks. He had been in what the prisoners of La Santé simply called the Coffin. It was a crate in which a prisoner would lie on his back and the guards would feed him through holes. Another hole allowed him to relieve himself, and, other than the guards shouting at the prisoner twice a day, there were no interactions.

Gustav had been placed there for attacking another prisoner that the guards were fond of. One guard in particular, Gy, had taken enormous pleasure in Gustav’s predicament and at one point urinated on him in the box, the other guards laughing behind him. When Gustav was walking out of the prison in the jeans and sports coat he had worn at his arrest, he smiled to Gy and told him he wished he had an enjoyable life.

“Fuck you, Gustav. If I see you in here again, it will not be as pleasant.”

“Take care of yourself, Gy. It is a dangerous world we live in.”

A car was waiting out front and he got into the backseat.

“Where to, monsieur?”

“Autour du Monde, please.”

“Oh, the monsieur knows his clothing.”

As they drove, Gustav stared out the window. Five years he had been locked away and in five years the city had changed. It appeared more crowded and dirtier than he recalled, trash drifting over the streets on a light breeze. But perhaps he was wrong? Perhaps he had changed and saw the world a bit differently.

Autour du Monde, to his satisfaction, looked exactly the same. The small boutique catered to those who preferred something unique in what they wore. Gustav found several shirts and sweaters and a few pairs of pants with scarves and a jacket to match. The driver paid on a credit card.

“I need a shower,” Gustav said.

“Of course, monsieur. A room has been arranged for you at Hotel Lutetia.”

“Excellent. Take me there now. But I need to make a quick stop first.”

“Of course.”

After a twenty-five minute drive to a Paris suburb, Gustav told the driver to wait. Parked in the lot of a farm, they simply sat as the minutes turned to an hour. Gustav occupied himself with meditation, but the driver asked if it would be all right for him to go for a walk. Gustav nodded.

Evening soon came and when darkness fell, Gustav got out of the car and walked several blocks amidst the night air. He forgot how exhilarating being on the streets at night felt. He was like a predator confidently walking through the jungle, certain that he was at the top of the food chain. In prison, he felt much the same way, but because he was held in the psychiatric unit, there really wasn’t anybody there to challenge him.

Before he’d left, he began an operation smuggling narcotics into the prison, primarily heroin. He preferred to sell heroin, cheaply, to the other inmates, as it made them more docile and easier to control.

The home he was looking for was across the street and to the right. It was an average home, nothing out of the ordinary for this suburb, and inside, through the windows, he could see a family playing with a dog in the living room.

Gustav walked across the street, and knocked on the door.

Gy Tasse finished his shift at the prison and logged out. He checked in his firearm, as the guards were not allowed to take them home, and changed into some sweatpants and a warm hoodie. As he made his way out to his car, he spotted an administrator, Nicolas, stashing something in his trunk.

“I have some candy for you,” Nicolas said, tossing him a wad of cash. “Your share of Gustav’s money.”

Gy caught the brick of cash held together with a rubber band. At least twenty thousand francs. Not an enormous sum, but a surprising profit for someone locked away in the psychiatric unit.

“I’m glad the sick bastard’s gone,” Nicolas said, lighting a cigarette. “He frightened me.”

“He was nothing. Just talk, like a woman.”

“I was with him longer than you, Gy. You’ve only been here two years. I was with him from the beginning. I remember one time a good doctor that was employed in the unit gave him a test, and Gustav pretended to break the marker he was using. The doctor, not thinking, gave him a pencil. You should have seen what Gustav did to him. He lost both eyes.”

“If he’s that dangerous, how did he get out?”

Nicolas shrugged. “Who knows how things really work? L’oublier, que pouvez-vous faire?”

Gy threw the cash up in the air and caught it again. “See you tomorrow.”

Nicolas nodded and returned to what he was doing.

As Gy drove through the streets of Paris, he thought he would stop and buy his wife a box of artisan chocolate from Patrick Roger, her favorite chocolatier. The traffic was terrible, and he called to tell her he was going to be late. He left a message and made his way to the store.

The store was crowded, as it always was, and they were giving away samples of a new lemon chocolate. Gy took one and loved it. He ordered a box of ten and paid with the cash Nicolas had given him. Halfway out of the store, he turned around and bought another three for the ride home.

The night air was cool and the sky was black except for a slit of moon. Gy never gazed up to the sky in wonder. He was worried about practicalities, and theory never interested him. In school, his favorite subject was car mechanics and he had no interest in subjects like literature or mathematics. He was happy in his little corner of the world, with a guaranteed paycheck, four weeks of vacation a year, and a good retirement.

Not to mention the money that would trickle in every month from the inmates. Payment for protection or for a blind eye to drug activities was something that had always occurred and he felt no guilt over being a part of it. One time, however, a man had been killed on his watch because he had been paid to be elsewhere. He had thought it was for drug business, but instead a group of inmates had stabbed a man to death. For that he felt some guilt, but assured that the man was scum, he conceded that he deserved to die.

Gy passed the small farm that neighbored his home and glanced inside before pulling into his driveway. He had no garage but it didn’t matter, as it rarely snowed. He took his chocolates and his cash and got out.

As he walked along his driveway to the moderately sized home, he saw something out of the corner of his eye on the sidewalk. It was a pinpoint of red in the darkness, and it would go up and burn bright and then lower and grow dim. It was a cigarette.

Gy pulled out the knife he kept with him and put the chocolate and the money down on the steps of his porch. He walked over to the man, who was clearly standing on his property. As he neared, he could make out his face in the moonlight.

“You!” he spit.

“Oui,” Gustav said, “me. How are you, Gy?”

“I’m going to cut your balls off and then call the police and have you thrown back into your hole. We’re going to have some fun there, you and I.”

“I don’t know if you’ll want to do that. You may want to try to stop the bleeding while you can.”

“What bleeding?”

Gustav smiled and Gy’s eyes went wide. “No!”

Gy turned and ran for the house. He stood at the doorway and saw what had occurred inside. Dropping to his knees, he began to weep.

He screamed and jumped up. He sprinted at Gustav, tears running down his cheeks. He swung with the knife, aiming directly for the throat. Gustav stepped out of the way as if he were a child avoiding a bee. He jabbed his fingers into Gy’s throat and then slammed his fist into his temple before striking full force into the nerve near the armpit. Gy’s arm went dead as Gustav swept his legs out and stood over him.

“I thought about this day a lot, Gy, my friend. I thought: would it be better to kill you or simply let you live with the death of your family? I decided it would be better to let you live. I think you will destroy yourself with alcohol and prostitutes and perhaps even kill yourself when you realize truly what you’ve lost. So it is, as the Americans say, your lucky day.”

Gustav left him on the sidewalk crying, a grin on his face as he walked back to the car.

CHAPTER 19

Rhett drove over a hundred miles per hour as they sped down the freeway. It only lasted a minute or two before they hit traffic and had to slow down. Then they would speed up as long as they could before having to slow again.

Stephanie sat next to him, in shock and shivering. Rhett took off his sports coat and placed it on her.

“I don’t…I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“We can worry about that later. I need to get you out of here right now.”

“Where are we going?”

“A place I know, upstate.”

She shook her head. “I need to call my husband.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said confused.

“Look at me.” She wasn’t responding and Rhett gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Look at me…your husband can’t help you. The police can’t help you. These people don’t care about laws or morality. They don’t feel pity for you. They don’t care. They have a job to do and are being paid a lot of money to do it. If they fail, not only do they lose this contract, they will never be hired again. You’re worth too much for them to leave you alone.”

“Why? What did I do?”

“I don’t know. But I may know someone that can find out.”

It was a five-hour drive to upstate New York. The weather alternated between sunshine and a gray, dismal rain. They were near Palmyra now, famous because the Mormon prophet Joseph Smith had a divine vision there. But other than the Mormons, no one cared about this area of the state. It was little more than farmland and forests. Rhett never quite felt like this was New York.

Getting off an exit a few miles past Palmyra, they stopped at a gas station. Rhett got out to pump and glanced inside the car. Stephanie was staring at the dashboard unblinkingly. She had lost color in her face and he could see that her hands were trembling. He went inside and bought her bottled water and some fruit to help steady her nerves.

“Here,” he said, getting back into the car.

“Thanks.” She opened the water and took a few sips as they pulled away. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Isaac.”

“Isaac, did you kill those men?”

“Yes.”

“You just killed them, just like that?”

“Would you rather I let them kill you?”

She shook her head. As they drove, she stared out the window at the passing farmhouses and would linger a long time on the horses.

“I grew up with horses. I worked at some stables when I was younger and I’d spend all day with them. I’d brush them before shows and make sure they had all their medication. They were so…human. They had personalities. If you just spent enough time with them, they would open up to you.”

“Stephanie, you have one chance to live. You need to do everything I say when I say it. This isn’t a democracy, this is a dictatorship. You’re putting my life at risk too. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Please say it.”

“I understand. I do what you say when you say it.” She looked to him. “Why are you doing this?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Does your wife know you kill people to protect strangers?”

Rhett was about to ask how she knew he was married when he realized she’d seen his wedding ring. He touched it lightly, twisting it on his finger. “She passed away.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “Any idea why someone would have a contract out on you?”

“No. I’m almost never home. Most of my time’s spent in Washington. Do you think…it could be my husband?”

“Is your husband wealthy?”

“No.”

“Then it couldn’t be him. The company I work for—worked for—doesn’t pay less than half a million per contract. That means they’re probably paid double that for the initial retainer. This is bigger than a domestic dispute.”

“You work with these people?”

“I used to. But not anymore.”

“You were a…”

“I killed people for money.”

She swallowed and looked away, out the window again. “Why are you helping me? Really?”

“You remind me of someone, and no one was there to help her when she really needed it.”

“How do I know you’re not still working for them?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I’ve had a dozen opportunities. This is the exit.”

They pulled off the freeway and into an intersection that led up a road with several farms. Turning down another road past a herd of cattle that was fenced off with an electrified fence, they followed a dirt road up and over a hill before coming to a gate on their left. Rhett got out of the car and retrieved a key from his pocket for the gate. He drove the car through and then got out to lock the gate again, glancing down both sides of the road before getting back in.

Up another dirt path was an old farmhouse. It was like something out of the nineteenth century. White exterior with a big unfenced yard and an old red barn about a hundred meters south of it. Rhett parked under an apple tree and stepped out. He opened the door for Stephanie and helped her out as his eyes darted around in search of anything that may be out of place.

“Where are we?” she said.

“It used to be my grandparents’ place.”

They walked along the gravel road that curved up to the farmhouse. Rhett unlocked it and they went inside. The home was one story with a Dutch oven in the living room. One entire wall was glass and looked out onto the orchard of apple and peach trees. The kitchen and bedrooms were off to the side.

“Nobody knows about this place,” he said. “Just make sure not to call anybody from the landline. You shouldn’t use your cell phone either.”

“I have to make calls. I have appearances I’m supposed to be at, meetings, people are going to think I’ve disappeared.”

“You have disappeared. No calls. You said you would do as I say. If not, you can be on your own.”

“Fine, no calls.”

“There’s no food here. I’m going to run up to the store. I should be back in half an hour.”

She nodded as he walked out the door. Rhett locked it behind him and did a quick run of the property. He checked the barn, and the work shed that was behind the home. He stood quietly for a long time and just listened. When he was satisfied that no one else was here, he got into his car and passed through the gate. As he locked it, he looked down both sides of the road and realized they couldn’t stay here long. They would find them here. They would go through all his records and every single one of his relative’s, and hers too. They would check everywhere just to be sure.

As he pulled away, he glanced into his rearview mirror and saw Stephanie at the window, staring out at him.

CHAPTER 20

Rhett turned on the radio as he drove and then turned it off when he found he couldn’t concentrate with it on. The farmlands that surrounded him were comforting, reminding him of his childhood.

Though he remembered little of his parents, his grandparents stood out in his mind as the kindest people he ever knew. He couldn’t remember a single instance of his grandfather getting angry with him or anyone else.

His grandparents were Mormon and had lived in rural Alaska for most of their lives. They had moved out here to be closer to the large community of Mormons that had made upstate New York their home. After having five children, including Rhett’s mother, they retired and worked their farm, making just enough money to get by. Though they didn’t have many luxuries, Rhett couldn’t remember a happier home.

His parents would come up from Philadelphia and drop him off here throughout the year for long stretches of time. Occasionally for more than six months. School was off and on so his grandparents took it upon themselves to educate him. He would study history and math and religion outside under the apple trees when it was warm, and inside by the fire when the snow was pouring down.

The most vivid memory he had of his grandfather was after Rhett had gotten into a fistfight with some of the local boys. He came home bloodied and bruised, and as his grandmother got some ice and aspirin out of the kitchen, his grandfather, a hulking man from a lifetime of physical labor, sat him down in the front room and looked him in the eyes.

“Why did you fight those boys?”

“They were calling me names and one of them took my hat.”

“Isaac, I used to fight too. I used to be under Satan’s influence. I would get drunk and I would fight and I would womanize. And you know what it brought me? Nothing. Nothing but unhappiness. Every action you make affects your happiness. I’m not saying not to fight. Sometimes you have to show the world that you’re not playing around. But do you really want to lose your life over a hat? Let it go, son. You just let some things go.”

Rhett had never forgotten that. It gave him perspective and an even temperament. Life was too short to worry about petty insults.

The grocery store, a small family-owned place called Mark’s Mart, was empty except for a single elderly woman shopping for fruit. Rhett took a cart and began filling it with food and toiletries. He stood in front of the magazine rack and wondered what Stephanie would read. He ended up choosing Cosmo and The Economist and put them in the cart as well.

As he was checking out, the old man behind the counter saw him and smiled.

“Isaac, how have you been?”

“Hi, Mr. Fielding.”

“You don’t have to call me Mr. Fielding anymore but I appreciate that. Wow, look at you. You know, I haven’t seen you since you were eighteen years old. You got your granddad’s good looks.”

“Thanks.”

“So what have you been up to?”

“Just work.”

“You married? Any kids?”

“No.”

“You gotta have kids, Isaac. They’re the meaning of life.”

“I’ve heard. How’s the grocery business?”

“Ah, that damn Wal-Mart got built up the road a little ago and they’re killing us. I’m gonna be closing up shop soon. I just can’t sell as cheap ’cause my produce is fresh from the ground that day. You’d figure people would want better quality. But who the hell knows? Maybe things’ll swing back the other way.” He began bagging the groceries. “Boy I miss your granddad. He was a good man. Anybody around here had any problems, he was there like lightning to help out. People ain’t really like that no more.”

“I miss him too.”

“So your grandma told me all them years ago, you got into the CIA? Is that right?”

Rhett blushed. He had told his grandparents not to say anything to anyone. He could picture his grandmother, gushing with pride, unable to control bragging to someone about her only grandson.

“That was a different lifetime ago.”

“So what d’ya do now?”

“Government work.”

“Well you need anything you come ask me, okay?”

“I will. Thanks.”

As Rhett pulled away, he glanced into the store and saw Mark Fielding helping the old woman choose her fruit. That kind of life, his grandparents’ life, didn’t exist anymore. Rhett was mature enough now that he felt old age creeping on him and he longed for simpler times and simpler people.

He began driving back to the house, and turned on the radio to a classical station.

CHAPTER 21

Vanessa Hailstorm sat outside the terminals at JFK and waited for an attendant to grab her car. She had been traveling now for thirty-six hours straight with no sleep other than a quick nap she could grab here and there.

She was glad to be out of Paris. Though she enjoyed Europe’s old architecture, as she would enjoy a museum, she didn’t feel France had much else to offer. The United States was where she felt most at home. She didn’t understand the French insistency on relaxed moods, the long meals that would stretch over a couple of hours, the view that life should be easy. She had to be constantly moving, constantly working, and she felt right at home in someplace like Manhattan or Los Angeles.

For a long time, she thought of herself as extremely driven and felt that working eighteen-hour days was simply what driven people did. A man she had been dating—he wanted to make it more serious, and she had rejected him—had told her that she worked so much because she was running from something. That she simply wasn’t courageous enough to settle down.

Dating…Vanessa suddenly remembered she had set a date for tonight. She sighed as she checked her watch. She could cancel, but she was starving anyway, as she refused to eat plane food. She might as well eat with someone else there.

When she got her car, she hopped onto the Van Wyck Expressway heading toward Manhattan. People crowded the streets and it was just cold enough that faint steam rose from the sewers. When she was little, she remembered that the steam would billow out of the manhole covers like massive plumes of smoke. But lately, over the past twenty years, that had changed and, somehow, they didn’t steam as much in cold weather.

The Blue Fin was in the busiest section of New York: Times Square. Usually, Times Square lacked any good restaurants, but Blue Fin wasn’t bad for seafood and sushi. Still, she wished her date had picked anywhere but Times Square. Tonight she wanted to eat by candlelight somewhere quiet and then go home and take a long, hot bath before sleeping for fourteen hours.

She used the valet and went inside. The restaurant was beautifully decorated and had a warm, golden glow. One wall by the staircase appeared raked over, like fingers through warm sand. The man she was here to see was slouching at a booth and he waved her over.

“He’s with me,” she said to the hostess before going over.

The man rose and kissed her hand, causing her to nearly roll her eyes.

“How are you?” he said.

“Exhausted, but I’ll manage. How are you, Dave?” she said as she sat down.

“Better now. I called you earlier about the show and got your voicemail.”

“What show?”

“We’re going to Rock of Ages? Remember, we discussed it last week.”

“Oh, right. Dave, I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ve been up for thirty-six hours. Do you mind if we just have dinner and call it a night?”

He glanced down, playing with a glass of wine he had in front of him. “Sure. I guess.”

“I hate when you do that.”

“What?”

“Pout. Just tell me how you feel.”

“I already bought the tickets and I was looking forward to it. How do you think I feel?”

“Well take someone else. I’m sure you’ve got other women lined up after me.”

He shook his head. “Boy you really do have ice in those veins, don’t you?”

She exhaled. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. How about this weekend we go up to Cape Cod and get a little cabin.”

“That sounds great,” he said with a grin.

When the waitress came Vanessa ordered an appetizer and several dishes of sushi. She leaned back in the booth and felt sleep coming over her under the warmth of the lights. As she turned to find the waitress and order a Diet Coke, her cell phone buzzed.

“Oh man,” Dave said, “here it comes.”

“Here what comes?”

“Work. Can’t you just turn your phone off? I’m sure there’re other lawyers at your firm that can handle whatever it is.”

“You know that’s not how it works. Just give me a second.” She stood up and walked toward the restaurant’s exit. “This is Vanessa,” she said as she stepped outside.

“We’ve got a hit.”

“Where?”

“Upstate New York. I’ve got a team headed up there now.”

“No, send it to our French magician.”

“It’ll take him hours to get—”

“Have a team keep an eye on them, but I want him handling this. If they move, you call him and tell him where. And then you call me right after.”

“I’m on it.”

She hung up the phone and walked back inside. “I have to go.”

“What?” Dave said. “You haven’t even eaten yet.”

“Call me this weekend.”

CHAPTER 22

After unpacking the groceries, Rhett checked the perimeter of the home one more time. Inside, he showered and changed into a sweat suit. Stephanie took a shower after him as he stood in the kitchen and cooked a meal of chicken skewers and lemon rice.

Cooking had always been pleasant for him, something one could do to occupy their mind. Frequently, he would lose track of time while doing it.

“That smells great,” Stephanie said, coming out of the bathroom in blue pajamas. “I found this in a closet. Hope it’s okay that I’m wearing it.”

“It was my grandmother’s. It’s fine. Hungry?”

“Starving,” she said, sitting down at the dining room table.

He dished out some rice and two skewers alongside a warm pita from the oven and placed the dish in front of her. He did the same for himself and sat down. He reached for a piece of chicken. “Wait,” Stephanie said, “we have to say a blessing.”

“What?”

“A blessing. Grace.”

“You’re kidding?” She looked at him without speaking. “Okay, go ahead.”

She closed her eyes and interlaced her fingers. “Dear Father in Heaven, please bless us this day that this food will nourish and strengthen our bodies, that those that wish to do us harm will be stayed, and that those we care about will be blessed by thy hand. In the name Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Rhett popped the chicken in his mouth. “I didn’t know you were religious.”

“How would you?”

“Good point.”

“My mother was. She would force us to attend church until we were eight. She felt like by then we could make our own choices. I still went but my brother stopped going.”

“My grandparents were Mormon. They forced me to go to church every Sunday until I was eighteen. Didn’t stick, though.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Seems irrational, considering how much pain is in the world. Hard to believe someone is looking out for us.”

“I think it’d be lonely to think we’re on our own.”

“That’s life. Anyone telling you different wants something from you.”

“So do you—oh my gosh, this is delicious.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

“Spain. I spent about five years there for work.”

They ate quietly a moment before she said, “Isaac, what’s happening to me? Who do you work for? Is it really the government?”

“No. Well, kind of.”

“Who then?”

“It’s called Starlight. It’s an agency that takes care of problems.”

“Starlight…why does that sound familiar?”

“They do mercenary work. They got into trouble a few years ago for abuses their mercs were perpetrating in the Congo.”

“That’s right, that’s how I know that name. They took over a lot of the contracts once Blackwater ran into all that trouble after Iraq.”

“They’re one of many. But mercenary work isn’t their specialty.”

“Murdering people is?”

He took a large bite of meat and followed it with a bite of pita. “Imagine if an organization was part of a covert government agency. And that organization grew rich and had an established bureaucracy, and then one day the government agency decided to shut it down. At that point, the organization could either dissolve, or become privatized and keep everything in place. That’s what Starlight did.”

She leaned forward. “Are you telling me a government contractor carries out hits on people?”

“That’s what they were trained to do, what I was trained to do.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Those men that picked you up from the police station posing as the FBI, did they show you identification and badges?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how difficult it is to forge an FBI ID? It has several watermarks that can’t be replicated. Those were actual IDs. That car they drove had government plates. How do you think they could get ahold of all that in less than eight hours?”

“That doesn’t make sense. Bill Clinton got a blow job in the White House and it was all over the news. General Petraeus sent a few emails on a CIA server and they got out. How could an entire agency do something like this without anyone knowing?”

“Who do you think released those emails? These guys have dirt on everyone. Something doesn’t go their way or people start thinking independently, they’ll pay for it.”

“How did this even begin?”

“Don’t know all the details, but J. Edgar Hoover started it. It was kind of like the covert version of his FBI. Then it went to the Office of Strategic Services when that was founded in World War II, and then it went to the CIA.”

“Who runs it now?”

“I don’t have the clearance for that. I know there’s an executive. He calls himself the Messenger, but I don’t know anything about him.”

She absently twisted her fork in the rice. “This is too much to take in. I’m a member of Congress and you’re telling me everything I know about how our government works is wrong.”

He shrugged. “There have always been people doing things for God and Country that no one ever finds out about.”

“Is that what this is about? God and Country? Have they determined I’m a threat somehow?”

“No, you have a contract. That means a third party hired them. Maybe they think you’re a threat.”

A buzzing came from the other room and Rhett looked to her. She glanced away. She clearly wanted to answer it. “Is your cell phone on?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t answer it, did you?”

“I…I have obligations. People are relying on me and if I don’t—”

“Did you answer it or not?”

“It was quick. It was my assistant and I just told her—”

He jumped up. “We need to leave right now.”

CHAPTER 23

Gustav Fabrice sat in the backseat as the driver played a rock station through the CD player. He wasn’t allowed music in the psychiatric unit of La Santé and even though he normally didn’t like rock, he was thoroughly enjoying this particular band.

“Who is this?” he said in his accented English.

“Creedence Clearwater Revival. CCR.”

“CCR. Please turn it up.”

Outside, passing by the windows, was the America he had always pictured when he thought of the States. Farms and cows and tractors. He’d been to America only once before but that was in Los Angeles for a connecting flight to Hawaii before moving on to Japan. He had decided that when this was over, he’d like to spend some time here.

He stretched his neck from side to side, cracking it both ways, and looked up to the moon.

The driver answered a phone call and spoke for half a minute before saying, “Your men have arrived. We just need to identify the exact home they’re staying at.”

“Stop here.”

The car slowed and turned into a little grocery store. The logo on the glass doors was of a chubby little animated man smiling and giving two thumbs up.

“I’ll be right back.”

Inside, Gustav stopped at the entrance and glanced around. He never entered a room without planning a quick exit route. He walked around slowly, observing the fresh fruit and the meats. He had learned in La Santé to disassociate himself from food. He had to, as the guards, as punishment, would deprive him of food for days at a time. He had to train his mind to believe that food was unnecessary.

An elderly man came out of the back just as Gustav bit into an apple.

“Nice, isn’t it?” the man said.

“Pardon me?”

“The apple. It’s called a Jazz apple. Good stuff.”

“It is very pleasant, yes.”

“Here, try this.” The man reached over to a small display behind the counter. It consisted of golden pears that appeared like small oranges. He took out a folding knife from his pocket. “Jordanian pears,” the man said, cutting off a piece and handing it to Gustav.

He ate it and was surprised by how much juice was contained in such a small slice. “Le meilleur que j’ai jamais mange. It is the best I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, French. Never learned myself. My wife, though, God rest her soul, taught English in Bordeaux for a year. She loved French.” He put out his hand. “Name’s Mark.”

Gustav took a step forward. “You have been here a long time?”

“Yeah,” he said, lowering his hand, “thirty-eight years.”

“I am looking for a man that may be here. He is known by many names but you will probably know him as Frederick Compton, or Isaac Rhett.”

Mark stared at him a long while. “And what would you want with him?”

“I am an old friend,” Gustav said, taking the pear and knife out of the man’s hands. He cut off another piece of pear and slipped it into his mouth. “We have much catching up to do.”

“Hm. Well, I can’t help you there.”

“But you know the man, yes?”

“Yeah, I know Isaac. But I ain’t seen him in, oh, a good fifteen years.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Now if you’ll excuse me I got to take inventory for the day.”

The man took out a clipboard and went down one of the aisles, counting bags of potato chips. Gustav watched him as he took another slice of pear. Suddenly, he threw the knife into the air and caught the blade between his fingers. He flung the knife with a flick of his wrist. The tip of the blade entered into Mark’s facial nerve on the right side. He fell over, his face frozen in an expression of shock.

Gustav walked over and pinned the man’s right arm down with his foot. His face was contorting from the pain as Mark attempted to shout for help or scream. Gustav reached down and pulled the blade out. Mark instantly sucked in breath as if he had been drowning and then screamed.

“Hurts, no? I was once stabbed there several times. I have actually lost the ability to move the right side of my mouth. I am unable to smile, but as I like to remind people that ask, I am also unable to frown. But I can grin, slightly. And you, mon ami, are making me grin.”

“What the hell do you want?” he said, panic in his voice as a trickle of blood slipped down his cheek.

“Where is Isaac Rhett?”

“I haven’t seen him for fifteen years. I swear to you. He used to come by here as a kid.”

“You are lying. I can…smell it on you.” Gustav held up the knife and swung down, the tip entering just above the shoulder blade into the trapezius muscle.

Mark screamed again as Gustav twisted the blade.

“Please! Please stop, I don’t know where he is.”

“You are lying!” He twisted the blade again, shouting, “Tell me where he is.”

Mark writhed and screamed and kicked, but he wouldn’t talk. Gustav took out the blade and pressed the tip into his groin. “You are tough and do not wish to betray your friend. That is commendable. But every man has a point beyond wish he will break. That point is right here,” he said, pressing the tip in just far enough to break the skin.

“He’s at a farm.”

Gustav withdrew the blade. “Where?”

“Up the road two miles. The Goodmanson’s old farm,” he said.

Gustav stood and threw the knife on the ground. “Thank you.” As he was walking out, he turned at the door and faced Mark. “One more thing, mon ami.” He pulled a 9mm out of his waistband and fired three rounds into the old man’s forehead.

The smell of gunpowder rose into his nostrils and he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent as if he were smelling flowers.

“Bonne journée, mon ami.”

CHAPTER 24

Rhett turned all the lights off. In the basement, set aside in a little alcove, his grandfather’s rifle collection lay untouched. He grabbed the shotgun and headed upstairs. At the front door, he used wire and a thin wooden rod his grandmother would use to beat wet clothes on a clothesline. Fishing the wire and the rod through the trigger-guard, he tied the other end to the doorknob and leaned the shotgun back against a chair.

He took Stephanie’s wrist and ran into the bedroom.

“Grab only what you need.”

“What’s going on?”

“Shh.” Rhett closed his eyes and listened. Up the road a little way, he could hear a car engine. Taking his pistol and one change of clothing, he ran out of the house, Stephanie trailing behind him.

Gustav waited in the car as his men got out and began circling the farmhouse. It was a quaint little place and it brought back memories of summers spent in vineyards at Burgundy. He rolled down the window so he could listen and enjoy the night air. The sweet-scented air was what he missed most when he was locked away. The air at La Santé consisted of little more than rebreathed, putrid air from hundreds of inmates packed tightly together.

Six men approached the farmhouse from all sides. Gustav couldn’t help but laugh at their attire: they were wearing all black with camouflage painted on their faces. He thought they looked like soldiers out of some old comedy movie. This was going to be a disaster, but he wasn’t trying to kill Rhett. He wanted to watch him, to see how he would react to the situation.

Gustav pulled out his weapon and switched over to the driver’s seat.

One man gave a hand signal and then crept to the front door. Two men prowled nearby, another stood watch, and two circled out back. The man at the front door counted down on his fingers from three. When he hit zero, he rammed his heel into the door just under the doorknob. The door swung open and a loud boom and a flash of light interrupted the darkness.

The man flew off his feet and onto his back. The other men opened fire with their SMGs. Within seconds, the house was riddled with bullets as all the windows shattered and things flew off the walls inside.

A car started a little ways from the barn. Gustav glanced over just in time to see it peel out and speed past the men, who were caught off guard. The car had nearly passed them before the men turned and started firing at it.

Gustav calmly started his car, and began to follow.

Rhett swung a hard right when he was on the road, rounds bouncing off the car or imbedding themselves into the body. One round hit the rear window and raced through the car and right out the windshield. Stephanie crouched on the floor in front of the passenger seat. When Rhett was far enough away that the firing had stopped, she climbed up.

“Where are we going?”

“Where’s your passport?” Rhett asked.

“At home. Why?”

“We can’t go there. We have to get you a new one. The man we’re going to see tomorrow can make one for you.”

She was silent a while, staring out the window at the darkness. “What’s the end?”

“The end? The end is you disappear. You start a new life in England or Spain or Africa, wherever you want.”

For the first time, she began to cry. Rhett didn’t know how to react so he said nothing.

“Sorry,” she said after a few minutes.

“It’s okay.”

“I just don’t understand why this is happening to me. I’ve never hurt anybody in my life.”

As he got onto the freeway, Rhett glanced behind him but the road was clear except for a car far off in the distance. It was a three-hour drive to where they were going and he would need to stop for gas soon. He wanted to be out of the county within forty-eight hours.

“Am I going to die?” she said, staring out the window.

He glanced to her and then back to the road. “No, you’re not going to die.”

CHAPTER 25

It was nearly midnight by the time Rhett drove into an affluent neighborhood in Riverdale. The homes were large and had enough space between them that one occupant couldn’t look into the home of another through his windows. The streets were wide and there was little light pollution so the stars shimmered in the black sky.

Rhett turned into a driveway and parked. “Wait here.”

All the lights were off in the home. He knocked and then rang the doorbell. Lights went on upstairs and he could hear somebody coming to the door.

An old woman in a bathrobe answered.

“Isaac? Do you know what time it is?”

“I do, Mrs. Giacconi, I’m sorry. But it’s really important I speak with Anthony.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Someone has hacked into my bank accounts. I’m afraid all my savings are gone unless I can speak to Anthony right away.”

“Oh dear. Well, yes, of course you can speak to him. He’s down in his room.”

“Thank you.” He motioned for Stephanie to come as well. “This is my cousin Stephanie.”

“Hello, Stephanie, pleasure to meet you.”

The old woman held the door open for them as they stepped inside. At the foyer, one set of stairs led to the main floor up a level and another set led to the basement. They took the stairs to the basement.

It was dark except for a blacklight, and some sort of odd, musical noise was playing over the surround sound. The only illumination other than the blacklight was from the monitors of four homemade computers.

Anthony Giacconi sat at one of them, poring over code. At another to his left, a porno was playing.

“Your grandmother know you watch that stuff?” Rhett sat down in a beanbag chair. Stephanie chose to stand.

“She never comes down here,” Anthony said, his eyes not leaving the screen.

“I don’t blame her. It smells like ass down here, Anthony.”

“I’ve been coding for three days straight. New program I can use to hack into the mainframe of any bank on Wall Street.”

“You get sick of the poor life?”

“I’m not poor, thank you very much. I sold some programs to Google and you’re now looking at a man of substantial means. I’m just going to fuck with them. I’m going to transfer around accounts and make trades and stuff. By the time they figure out what’s going on, they’ll have to shut down to purge the system.”

“Whatever floats your boat I guess.”

Anthony rolled his wheelchair out from under the table that held all his computer equipment. “Oh, hello. Why didn’t you tell me you had a lady with you?” He pressed a button on the keyboard and the porno turned to a music station.

“You look good,” Rhett said. “You’ve put on some weight. Still pasty white, though. You have to get out more.”

“I don’t really like going outside. Lotta germs in nature. You guys want a Code Red?”

“No thanks. I’m here for something else.”

“What’s up?” he said, rolling over to a fridge and getting a drink for himself.

“We need a passport and identification for her.”

“No prob.”

“And I need you to look at this.”

Rhett pulled out his phone and opened the black app. Anthony took it and began testing its functions. “Is this how you communicate with the Messenger?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm, it’s encrypted. Let me mess with it.”

He plugged the phone into one of his computers, and the app and about a page of code came up. Anthony began swiftly erasing bits of code and writing in new ones. He glanced over to Stephanie, who had moved some clothes out of the way and sat down on a small couch.

“It’s using a simple algorithm to bounce the signal around so I can’t trace it. I need like, three or four hours with it.”

“I need the location of the Messenger.”

“I can get you the location of where he last texted you from, but I have no idea where he would be now unless he sends you another text.” He glanced to him. “What’s going on anyway?”

“A long story for another time.”

“Suit yourself. Come back in a few hours.”

“I’ll be back in the morning.”

Rhett rose and thanked him as they walked out of the house. They were driving before either of them spoke.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“An old friend. We both worked at the same agency once. He does work for me sometimes.”

“How’d he end up in a wheelchair?”

“He’s always been in one. He was born with a degenerative disease of the spine. He’s outlived all the doctors’ predictions.”

A Marriot Courtyard was off the freeway just a mile up the road. Rhett abandoned the car behind a gas station before they walked over to it: they couldn’t drive around in a car pockmarked with bullet holes. Tomorrow, he would have to get a new one.

They checked in, Rhett using a credit card that belonged to a Nathan Hillcrest. The room held two beds and Rhett collapsed onto one as Stephanie climbed into the other in the darkness, not bothering to take her shoes off.

It’d been a long time since he’d slept in the same room with a woman. He watched her a few minutes and then took out his pistol and tucked it underneath the pillow.

CHAPTER 26

In the morning, they used the disposable toothbrushes sold at the front counter, and Stephanie showered before they went out to the main dining area for breakfast. A small grill replaced the continental breakfasts they used to give out to the guests and Rhett ordered two omelets with orange juice.

Sitting in a corner booth, Rhett watched a young girls soccer team as they poured out of their rooms and into the dining hall. They were laughing and joking around with each other.

“Do you have any kids?” Stephanie asked, taking a sip of orange juice.

“No.”

“Paul and I wanted kids. Or at least I did. Just never seemed like the right time. It was a blessing in disguise, though, I guess. I would have been stuck with him. Did you grow up with any siblings?”

“No. My parents were a little off. They would travel so much I’d be lucky to see them a few times a year. And they almost worked themselves to death. That’s why I grew up with my grandparents.”

“Why were your parents traveling so much?”

“They could never sit still for very long. I think they felt like strangers at home and so they thought traveling would bring them that sense of community. Staying in hostels with other travelers, things like that.”

“Did you ever go with them anywhere?”

“No, they never took me.” He took a long sip of juice. “I was a mistake for them.”

“Holy shit.”

Rhett saw that she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were above and behind him, watching the television behind the grill. Rhett turned around to see a news anchor speaking, a photo of Stephanie in a box to the side.

Again, Congresswoman Stephanie Johnson is wanted for questioning in the death of her husband Paul Johnson. We’ve been told there is video evidence taken from a passerby on their phone of Congresswoman Johnson fleeing from her home shortly after police believe her husband was killed. We will be providing our viewers with updates as the story progresses. James—

Stephanie took out her phone and Rhett grabbed it away from her before she could dial.

“I need to call my assistant.”

“It won’t help.”

“I need her to tell the police that—”

“It won’t help. They have video and probably the murder weapon with your prints on it. You can’t do anything about it.”

Her eyes suddenly went wide. “Paul,” she gasped. “Oh no, Paul.” Her hand covered her mouth and she began to cry.

“I’m sorry.”

“How can they do this? How does this happen in America?”

“We’re no different than any other country. We’re riding on the wave that our Founding Fathers gave us, but every day that wave grows a little smaller. It’s the nature of democracy to become tyranny.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying there’s the world you think you know and the world that actually is. Some people don’t ever want to learn how the real world works. We’re the most hated nation on the planet but it’s extremely rare to have a terrorist attack on our soil. In fact, we haven’t had one since nine-eleven. How do you think that is? Just luck? Organizations like Starlight extinguish those fires before they happen.” He downed his orange juice. “Let’s go before someone recognizes you.”

They stepped outside and walked up the street to a grocery store. Rhett went to the phone booth and pretended to use the phone as he watched the cars pulling in. A young man of sixteen or seventeen parked with a yellow Mustang.

Rhett waited until the boy had gone inside. He walked to the car and pulled out the small wallet he always carried with him. Opening it, he chose a tool in the shape of smooth key. It unlocked the door and the alarm went off. Rhett jumped in and popped open the hood, disconnecting the alarm from the battery and shutting it off in less than ten seconds. He used the same tool to start the car and picked up Stephanie, who waited for him by the phone booth.

“I don’t like stealing,” she said.

“We’ll leave it at the airport with a note to contact the police. They’ll get it back to him.”

As they drove on the interstate, Stephanie kept checking the messages on her phone.

“I have over three hundred unread emails,” she said. “Can I at least respond to emails?”

“No. Don’t say anything to anyone. In fact, you should get rid of your phone.”

“I can’t do that.”

Rhett glanced at her. “Are you that much of a junkie, you can’t disconnect even to save yourself?”

She looked to him and then away. They drove in silence a long time before she rolled down her window and threw the phone out. It bounced once before shattering into a dozen pieces from the impact of the car behind them.

“Maybe I should turn myself in,” she said. “Hire the best lawyers.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re free. They don’t care about incarcerating you. They want to know where you are. They can kill you just as easily in prison as they can outside. They just need a location, that’s why they killed Paul. They were hoping that would draw you out.”

She sighed as they exited the interstate and drove into the same neighborhood they’d been in before. She was trembling and Rhett saw her take one hand in the other so it wouldn’t show.

Parking on the curb, Rhett said he would be right back and then strolled to the Giacconis’ front door. He knocked, waited half a minute, and then rang the doorbell. He repeated this several times but no one answered. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He glanced back to Stephanie, and then pulled out his pistol before going inside.

CHAPTER 27

Detective Henri Abbott sat at the Interpol administrative offices in Lyon, France. He put his feet up on the desk. He’d spent the last three days tracking down a ring of car thieves and was exhausted though he’d done little more than place a few calls and make a few visits to mothers to talk about their sons.

Apparently the teenage boys, and oddly enough, Henri thought, two girls, traveled to Los Angeles, stole several cars, and then had them shipped back to France and Spain where they could get premium dollar. As long as the cars were of luxury makes of course. But they had now moved into darker territory: the importation of underage prostitutes. Girls as young as ten would be lured by the boys with promises of money and then forced to work as prostitutes on the streets.

That’s why Henri had gotten the call. There was no international police force. Each member nation had a certain number of clerks and detectives assigned to Interpol. Someone smuggling cocaine from France to America could be arrested by either police agency. To avoid confusion and confrontation, a call would simply be placed to Interpol and the Interpol detectives in both police agencies working the case would come together to solve it. In theory. In practice of course, no police agencies enjoyed working together. Especially across oceans.

Henri had gotten the break he needed when he confronted one of the boys’ grandmothers. She was heartbroken at what her grandson was doing, but said she would not call him home to come get arrested. So Henri arrested her for obstructing a police investigation. He called the news and waited for them to arrive before hauling the eighty-one-year-old to his car in handcuffs. The boy came into the police station that night, freely, and offered directions to a house where the young girls were in exchange for charges being dropped against his grandmother.

Henri had been the one to go inside and see the filth that the girls lived in. Even more shocking was the fact that there were at least twenty of them. A couple of teenage boys had rounded up and kidnapped twenty prostitutes. It terrified him to think what older men with more connections and organization could do.

Henri was forty-three and almost retired, having joined the police force at twenty, the minimum age of entry back then. He could have retired three years ago but chose to stay on. He thought now that it was a mistake and pondered when would be the best time to quit.

His phone rang. It was his wife. “J'ai été en attente pour vous appeler. I was wondering when you would check up on me,” he said.

“I’m making carbonnade à la flamande. I thought you could pick up some wine to pair it with.”

“Oh? Really? And to what do I owe such a magnificent meal?”

“To the fact that you bought me new boots today.”

“I hope they were not too expensive.”

“Not too much, no. Just enough.”

He smiled. “Well then, I would be happy to pick up a good wine.”

“Bientôt à la maison, je suis en attente pour vous.”

“Comme le vent, mon amour.”

“Vous pouvez toujours me faire sourire. Bientôt à la maison.”

Henri hung up the phone just as his door opened and a junior detective walked in. He held a file under his arm and placed it on the desk.

“What’s this?”

“Gustav Fabrice,” the detective said.

Henri took his feet off the desk and leaned forward. “What about him?”

“He’s been released.”

“What are you talking about, released?”

“He was let go from La Santé four days ago.”

“Why wasn’t I notified? The parole board knows that I have a—”

“The board didn’t release him. In fact, they fought against it.”

“Who did then?”

“I don’t know. The order comes from the top. No one is willing to say who.”

Henri opened the file. It was Gustav’s prison file with a black-and-white photo of him clipped to the inside of the jacket. Just seeing Gustav gave him a cold shiver. “Where is he now?”

“He was put on a private flight for New York.”

“New York?” Henri said, looking up from the file. The detective shrugged. “Charter a flight for me for tonight and get me an expense card. I need at least eleven hundred euros a day.”

“Where are you going?”

Henri rose and grabbed his coat. “To New York. But first to La Santé to find out what the hell is going on.”

CHAPTER 28

Henri showed his badge to the front desk of La Santé and waited until the superintendent arrived. He was a portly man of about fifty and he was sweating so much, his shirt was soaked and beads of it came down over his forehead. Henri put his hands behind his back and stood far enough away from him that he wouldn’t have to shake his hand.

“Inspector, what a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m sure it is, Nicolas.”

“What is it I can do for you? Eh, you know you can always call.”

“No, I wanted to look at you when you answered me.”

“I see. Answer you what?”

“Why was Gustav Fabrice released four days ago?”

Nicolas nodded. “Hm. Come to my office.”

Henri followed him down the corridor and to a suite of offices that were down another hallway before they arrived to the main gate, which led to the cells. They turned down a separate corridor toward the administrative offices.

The offices were small and cramped and many of them had no windows. But Nicolas’ office was terrible even by those standards. They sat and Nicolas poured wine out of a container into two small glasses, pushing one forward to Henri, who took it in his hand but didn’t drink.

“He was an interesting one, that one,” Nicolas said.

“Why was he released?”

“Orders.”

“Orders from who?”

“From people that make a lot more than me.”

“May I see these orders?”

Nicolas reached into a drawer in his desk and ruffled some papers. He came back out with a legal document written in French, an English translation attached. It was an official release order from the Cour de Cassation: one of the highest courts in all of France.

“They don’t have jurisdiction to do this,” Henri said.

“Don’t they? How would you know? The laws change so quickly, Henri. Men like us can’t keep up.”

“Nicolas, they can’t do this.”

“So, hire a barrister and set a hearing and go argue with them if you like. I’m not going to waste my time. I just follow orders.”

“Who was he released to?”

“I don’t know. Some woman came and saw him the day before his release. Maybe it was her?”

“What woman?”

“I don’t know, Henri. I got this order and I released him that day. That’s it. That’s all I know.”

He exhaled. “I saw a video camera by the entrance. Show me video of this woman.”

“I’m very busy right now. Very busy. Why don’t you set an appointment and we can—”

“Unless you would like me searching through your drawers for the cocaine you keep in the lower left one, I recommend we watch the video.”

Nicolas was silent a moment and then said, “The video is not such a bad idea.”

Henri was led to a small room, even smaller than the offices, with a DVD player and a television set up. The DVD player looked to be about fifteen years old but he was impressed they even had that, as the last time he was here, he remembered someone mentioning that they had a VCR.

A guard fast-forwarded a disc until he stopped on a blond woman in a skirt. She checked in at the front desk and then waited a while before a guard came and took her back.

“Do you know her?” Nicolas said.

“Yes. I know her.”

“Who is she?”

“She works for the United States government. CIA.”

“CIA?” He whistled between his teeth. “They certainly do pick their most beautiful women for such work.”

“Thank you for showing me this, Nicolas. Call me if you hear anything.”

“I don’t suppose you would be willing to pay a little for such a call?”

Henri glanced at him before leaving the room and finding his way out of the prison and into the warm Paris afternoon. He had a flight to catch to the United States and he had just decided he needed to go to a new city: Washington, DC.

CHAPTER 29

Rhett stood just inside the Giacconis’ home. He listened to the old house. An air conditioner clicked on upstairs and he could hear the soft crunching of what he guessed was a cat in a litter box. He slowly closed the door behind him. Slipping off his shoes, he walked to the upstairs living room in his socks, the pistol held low.

In the living room was an old, large screen television and all the furniture had plastic wrap. A worn rug was strewn over the carpet and it had caked-in hair from at least four or five cats. Two of them lounged on the couch and one was still scratching in the litter box in the corner. He stepped into the kitchen.

A pot of coffee was on the stove but it was cold. He walked to the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony. He didn’t see anyone in the backyard. Two bedrooms occupied this floor as well as a bathroom and he checked them all. No one was here. He had never known the Giacconis to leave their doors unlocked.

He walked downstairs into the dark. The blacklight was off. Rhett turned on a flashlight app on his phone, and scanning the room, he saw that it was empty. The light from the flickering blue screens of the monitors still seeped in from the adjacent room and he went inside. Anthony sat in his wheelchair, facing the screens.

Rhett said quietly, “Anthony. You all right?”

There was no reply.

He walked over and put his hand on Anthony’s shoulder. He didn’t move. Rhett pulled him back a little bit and saw the black blood that had congealed in the massive wound where his right eye used to be. The round had entered through the eye socket and bounced around inside the skull without enough velocity to exit. An attribute of a good .22 caliber weapon: the type favored by people in his line of work.

Rhett felt a change in the air pressure around him. It was just above him and was slight enough that he might not have noticed had his senses not been more attuned from the stress of the situation. It took a moment before he realized a round had just missed his head. He experienced it in slow motion: the change in pressure, followed by the small whizzing sound, like a bee, and then the shattering of the standing floor lamp behind him.

Rhett leapt to the floor and fired three rounds into the darkness as he crawled on his hands and knees. He jumped through the threshold of the door just as a hot round grazed his calf. He spun and lay on his back, his weapon pointed into the room, his breathing slowed to perfect his aim. He began to crawl toward the stairs.

Another three rounds fired from the darkness, little flashes of light seemingly coming from different directions. Rhett jumped up the stairs, the pain in his calf shooting through his body. He climbed the stairs with his gun pointed downward into the darkness. As he reached the top, two rounds went into the step just below him.

He rolled backward and to the front door. He stood, leaning on his good leg, his weapon pointed down the stairs. A voice came from the darkness.

“Hello, Isaac.”

Rhett’s eyes went wide and his breathing quickened. He knew that voice.

Fear and uncertainty filled him. He was deciding what to do when the door behind him opened. Stephanie stood there, a look of surprise on her face.

“Get down!” Rhett shouted.

He grabbed her head and pulled it down just as two bullets embedded themselves in the doorframe where her face had been. He pushed her out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

“We need to go now. Start the car.”

He threw her the keys and pointed his weapon at the house, backing away across the lawn as Stephanie pulled the car out and stopped at the curb to wait for him. He had only been half certain she wouldn’t just drive away.

He got into the passenger seat and they peeled off down the road.

CHAPTER 30

Henri stood in the airport’s atrium and waited for security to check his credentials. The flight to DC had been long with a five-hour layover in New York. He had used the time to catch up on his reading and attempted to sleep a little but couldn’t. One thing that did impress him was the quality of restaurants the American airports now had. In Europe, fine restaurants at airports, or at least higher quality restaurants, were expected. The last time he had been to America some ten years ago, the only thing one could get was greasy fast food.

The building was unassuming: a gray-and-red-brick, twelve-story building near the capital. It was in a row of buildings that held administrative offices. A passerby would think nothing of it, but Henri knew what was inside. He understood that the world didn’t work the way most people thought it did. That there was a class of people in each government that did things and understood things in a way that was incomprehensible to most men.

“Sir,” the guard said, walking back up to him. “Mrs. Hailstorm will see you now.”

“Thank you.”

He was led to an elevator and then taken to the top floor. The offices up here were much different than those on the bottom floor. Here, attractive paintings decorated the walls and the furniture was a nice leather, or at least a nice imitation leather. Henri was taken through glass doors and another set of metal detectors before being allowed past the receptionist. Up on the wall, in metallic lettering, it said, DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY.

Henri was led to a corner office. Behind a large desk sat a beautiful woman in a gray suit. He sat across from her as the guard shut the door.

“You know, the last time I saw you,” he said, “you were wearing a gray suit as well.”

“It’s unassuming,” she said.

He grinned. “Why are you playing in my country’s affairs, Vanessa?”

“Your country’s affairs affect my country’s affairs.”

“Does French intelligence know what you’ve done?”

“I didn’t think there was any reason to get them involved.”

“They won’t like it.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done. What can they do now?”

Henri exhaled and looked out the window to the gray sky. “Why him?”

“That’s classified information. You know better than to ask.”

“You don’t know him like I do. He’s not normal. Even for the line of work he’s in.”

“Nobody’s normal. But like I said, it doesn’t matter now. It’s done. Besides, he’s just a tool. One that I can discard after he’s completed what I need him to complete. I’d be happy to turn him over to the French government afterward.”

“Did you ever see his apartment?” She shook her head. “One of my men needed therapy after we searched it. He collected things. Fingers, skin, bones. His kitchen knives, the handles, were made of bones from victims.” He leaned forward. “I know what you’re doing. You think you can control him, but you can’t. Some people in the world were only put here to destroy. They care nothing for money or logic or society. When he’s done doing what you asked him to do—and he will do it because he has some deviant view of honesty and bargains—after he’s done, he may find it entertaining to kill you next. That’s what he looks for: entertainment.”

“Are you done?”

Henri leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I’m done.”

“Good. I have a lot of work to do. The guard can escort you out. If you’re hungry, there’s a great Italian restaurant not four blocks south of here.”

Henri rose. As he left, he glanced back once and said, “Perhaps you should consider tighter security for a while.”

CHAPTER 31

Stephanie drove as fast as she could through the residential streets, kicking up speed on the freeway, but she had to slow down several times because of a backlog of traffic. When they were a few miles away, Rhett said, “It’s fine. Slow down.”

“What happened?” she said.

“Someone was there I wasn’t expecting.”

“Who?”

“Someone I thought was dead.” He was quiet a moment. “We need to find a way out of the country. He won’t stop.”

“What about your friend and his mom?”

“They’re dead.”

She was quiet a moment. “You’re cut.”

“What?”

“Your forehead is cut.”

Rhett reached up and touched the top of his head. He pulled away, a smear of blood on his fingers.

“Looks like he missed,” she said.

“No, he doesn’t miss. He let me live.”

“Why?”

“It’s…more fun for him.”

“Fun? He thinks this is fun?”

Rhett checked his calve. The cloth of his pants had been torn away and he was cut and bleeding but the round hadn’t entered. “Get off this exit.”

Driving off the ramp, they found a Rite Aid up the road a little and they pulled in. Rhett ran inside and was back out within minutes with razors, scissors, and hair dyes. A motel was up the street from the nearest gas station, and they drove to it and got a room.

“You need to change your hair,” he said as they walked into the room. “Cut it short and color it black or red. I got both.”

“Where are you going?”

“I left my phone at that house.”

“Wait, you’re not going back there, are you? We just barely got out.”

“I need that phone.”

“Why?”

“It has information on it. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Rhett drove around the neighborhood twice before stopping a block away. He got out and glanced around. It was nearly noon by now and the people that weren’t at work were inside having lunch and watching television. A few kids had come home from school and he watched them walk up the street and waited until they were safely inside their homes.

He walked up the sidewalk until he arrived at the house. No police. He walked across the lawn and tried the door: it opened.

He stepped inside and pulled out his pistol. Taking a deep breath, he was about to go downstairs when he saw his shoes on the carpet next to the door. He had abandoned them last time. He put them on. Then he took them off again. He was nervous for the first time he could remember since he was in his twenties.

The basement was just as dark as before, and he put his back against the wall and slid to where he could see the blue light of the monitors. Anthony’s body was slumped over now, the stench of fecal matter burning Rhett’s nostrils. Bowels and bladder released mingled with the copper smell of blood and the hot plastic from computers that had been running nonstop for months or years.

Rhett crouched, making his way into the room. He slid along the back wall into the darkness and held his breath. The only thing he could hear was his heart. He traced the walls with his back, circling the adjacent room behind the computers before coming back to them. He went to the light switch on the wall, and flipped it on.

The rooms were empty. He was gone.

Rhett lifted Anthony out of his chair and placed him on his back on the floor. He closed his eyes and put a sheet over him before rising and turning to the desk. Going through the drawers revealed a few passports but none for Stephanie. His phone was still hooked up to one of the computers. He disconnected it and slipped it in his pocket.

Outside, he walked back up the street to the yellow Mustang. He went by the house and realized he held his breath as he drove past.

CHAPTER 32

As Rhett walked in, Stephanie sat on the hotel room bed watching the news. Her hair was cut short and dyed a bright red. It was uneven but the lack of precision looked like it was intended. Her bangs came down over her eyes and he thought she looked a lot younger.

“I like it,” he said, walking to the fridge and looking for an orange juice.

“Who was that man?” she said softly.

“What man?”

“The one that has you so frightened.”

Rhett stopped and glanced to her. “Who says I’m frightened?”

“I can see it.”

Rhett grabbed an orange juice and sat down on her bed. “His name’s Gustav. I knew him a long time ago. A different lifetime it seems like. He’s the best there is at what we do.”

“Kill people.”

He nodded, not realizing she meant it in a derogatory way. “The last time I saw him I was in Algeria. It didn’t end well for either of us.” He looked to her and then to the television. “Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?”

“Where would I run to?”

“I don’t know. You seemed pretty adamant about running to the police.”

“You said they couldn’t help me.”

“They can’t, but I didn’t think that would stop you from trying.”

She was quiet a moment. “How do you do it? How do you kill people for a job like it’s nothing?”

“That’s all I was trained to do. It’s the only thing I’ve been really good at my whole life. That’s an odd irony, isn’t it? They always tell you to do what you’re good at and what you love. What if what you’re good at and love is evil?”

“You saved my life when it put yours at risk to do it. I don’t think evil people do things like that.”

“Maybe not. I don’t know if it really matters.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“Let’s go somewhere. I need to feel normal.”

“I saw a Mexican grill across the street. We can go there.”

She jumped up and went into the bathroom to change. She was clearly in a better mood and Rhett was amazed at the things that would make people happy once they’d been deprived of everything they knew.

“So you didn’t save people from hitmen your whole life,” she said from the bathroom. “What did you do before?”

“I was recruited by the CIA when I was eighteen.”

“What did you do for them?”

“Paramilitary unit. Black ops, things like that.”

“Do I even want to know what kind of things the CIA is doing behind our backs?”

“Probably not. Making sausage and everything. Better just to eat it and be content than know where it comes from.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“So you were a lawyer? What was that like?”

“Awful. I couldn’t wait to get out of it. I think every lawyer is looking for an exit strategy the second they enter the profession.”

“Seems like it would be boring.”

“Well I wouldn’t say that. I was interested in some cases. But as a whole, yeah, I was stuck behind a desk doing paperwork for bosses that were more interested in getting me in bed than in my work. And the clients were worse than my bosses. People expect miracles from a system that doesn’t have any.”

Rhett was silent a moment. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

“I’m sorry for him too.” She stepped out of the bathroom. “Ready?”

“Sure.”

As they walked out, Rhett saw a man in the hall and waited until he passed before letting Stephanie follow him to the lobby. At the front desk, the clerk nodded to them as they walked out into the parking lot. Rhett got a good look at the motel’s exterior. It was run down and several people hung out on the small balconies with beers in their hands. Some were sitting on the stone steps. He suddenly felt embarrassed that he had brought her here.

“We’ll check in somewhere nicer tonight.”

“I don’t care. I’m just so excited to actually sit down and have some real food.”

The Mexican grill was packed, and a mariachi band was going around to the different tables and playing for tips. They ordered and sat down, each of them having a Corona and finishing it before their first bite. They asked for another round.

“I think it’s sweet you still wear your wedding ring,” she said.

“Just habit I guess.”

“So, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but do you live here in the States?”

“I live in the Virgin Islands.”

“Wow. I’ve never been. That sounds great, though.”

“Three hundred and forty-two days of sunshine a year. No snow, very few storms…I couldn’t ask for a better place.”

“Is that where you’re going when this is all over?”

“For sure. I’ve been all around the world and there’s nowhere I’d rather live.”

“Maybe I can visit sometime. You know I’ve never been to a beach? How weird is that?”

“The ocean is a mystical experience. We’re deeply connected to it. The salinity content of the ocean is the same as the salinity content of our blood.” He glanced to the waiter and held up two fingers, reminding him they’d requested more beer. “So what do you do for fun if not go to the ocean?”

“I go skiing a lot. I’d rent a cabin by myself for a weekend and spend the whole day skiing and the night reading by a fire and sipping hot coco.” Suddenly she looked withdrawn. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling herself together.

“You have the right to be upset.”

“This just doesn’t make any sense.”

“We live in two worlds, two mutually exclusive worlds. You’re being exposed to the other now, the real world. How things really are. It’s disorienting. Like culture shock I think.”

“There aren’t two worlds. There’s just this world and the people who keep secrets in it.”

“Do you want to know the saddest thing I’ve ever learned? Martin Luther King Junior. He was being followed by J. Edgar Hoover’s men in the FBI, like most people with some celebrity were in those days. I worshiped King. I thought men like him came along once in a century. Then I found out that Hoover had recordings of King cheating on his wife with multiple women. He did it frequently apparently. I was never able to look at him the same. And I completely understand that we’re men and we have flaws and I forgive him for that because he brought so much good into the world. But I never saw him the same. I got a glimpse of this other world and it changed me forever. Changed the way I saw things. That’s happening to you too. You just don’t realize it yet.”

She exhaled and took a long sip of her second beer, which the waiter had brought over along with their food. “I’m going to miss Modern Family if I stay in this new world. I really liked that show.”

Rhett smiled as he picked up his fork and began to eat.

CHAPTER 33

Gustav parked in front of the motel’s main entrance and sat in his car. The motel appeared to be at least fifty years past its prime and garbage fluttered in the parking lot. The property had a pool and an older woman lay in a deckchair. Gustav could see her varicose veins from where he was: blue snakes running up and down her legs. It disgusted him and he looked away.

A second floor was identical to the first with the exception of small balconies. People were leaned against the railings, looking down below to the street, searching for any entertainment. A few appeared drunk and several, he guessed, were high on the drug of choice. He assumed heroin, which wasted the days away painlessly.

His eyes scanned the parking lot and then each of the motel’s windows. He stepped out of the car and stood next to it. He was wearing a sports coat, but the weather, which had been cloudy most of the time he was here, now offered a warm heat. He took his coat off and put it in the backseat of the car before walking to the lobby.

A man stood behind the front counter, flipping through a pornographic magazine. He glanced up, uninterested, and then went back to his magazine.

“Hello,” Gustav said.

“Twenty-five a night or seventy-five a week. We can also rent by the hour.”

“I’m actually looking for someone. I believe they may be staying here.”

“I don’t talk about no guests to people that aren’t guests.”

Gustav took out a billfold and threw a hundred dollar bill on the counter. “One man and one woman.” He took out his phone and showed him a photo of Stephanie Johnson. “Are they here?”

“Yeah, they’re here.”

“Which room, please?”

“That I can’t tell ya. I don’t know who you are. See if I knew who you are then I could tell ya.”

Gustav exhaled. “Is that your attempt at humor? This must be a local phenomenon. Unfunny jokes by small men.”

“I told you what I’m gonna tell ya.”

Gustav’s eyes locked on a pen on the counter. He grabbed the man’s wrist—pulling it down against the counter and holding it in place—picked up the pen, and slammed the tip through the back of his hand. The metal tip scraped the top of the counter through his flesh. The man screamed. Gustav pulled the pen out but held his hand in place.

“Which room, please?”

“One zero three. Down the hall to the right,” he squealed.

“Room key, please.”

Gustav let the man go after he was handed a card. He walked down the hall, passing two doors before arriving at 103 and putting his ear to the door by the peephole. He couldn’t hear anything. He checked his watch: it wasn’t likely they were sleeping. He pulled out his pistol and stood to the side of the door. Sliding the card into the lock, he pushed the door open after the click.

It was dark inside. The blinds were drawn and the only light coming in was around their edges. He slid into the room, his back to the wall, and listened. After a long while, he looked in the bathroom and moved the shower curtain aside with the barrel of his weapon. He checked under the beds and then sat down.

Some men were gathered outside around a car, flirting with a few women who were in the driver and passenger seats. He could hear another voice as well. It was softer and in the background, and he couldn’t determine where it was coming from.

He realized it was his own voice.

Reaching his hand up, he physically closed his mouth and prevented it from moving. He took out an amber bottle and popped two white pills before going to the sink in the bathroom and cupping his hands underneath the water. He took two large gulps and stared at himself in the mirror as he dried his hands on a towel. He looked older, he thought. He’d aged ten years in five.

He flipped the light off and walked back into the hall, closing the door behind him. As he walked out of the lobby, he pointed his pistol to the front-desk clerk, who was on the phone with the police. Gustav fired two rounds without looking, hitting the man twice in the chest. The phone ripped out of the wall as the man flew back and to the ground.

He went out to his car, and waited.

CHAPTER 34

After three beers, Rhett had finished half his meal. Stephanie spoke nearly the entire time. She talked about law school, about how Paul, nearly fifteen years her senior, had managed to seduce her at the firm they both worked at, how her mother had raised kids while working two jobs and going to school at night.

She inhaled her burrito with a side of rice and when they were done, Rhett paid and they began walking back to the motel.

“What was your wife like?” Stephanie said.

“She was…intense. She was the type of person that couldn’t start something without finishing it, and she always had to be the best at whatever she did. I was much more relaxed than her so we balanced each other out.”

“How did she pass?”

Rhett didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s okay. I just realized I’ve never talked about this with anyone.”

“Uh-oh.”

He looked up to see several police cruisers in the motel parking lot. An ambulance was parked beside the curb along with a van from the Medical Examiner’s Office. Everyone from the motel was out, watching the men work.

An EMT pushed a body out on a gurney, a white sheet over it with a dark stain on the chest. The sheet was only half-way over the face and they could see the front-desk clerk’s solemn face peeking through. Stephanie covered her mouth with her hands in shock.

“We need to leave,” Rhett said, taking her arm.

He turned her around and pulled her as they walked at a quick pace. She kept glancing over her shoulder but he kept his eyes forward, fixed on the intersection up ahead. He listened to what was going on behind him and he heard a car start and pull out of the motel. He glanced back.

“When we get to that intersection we’re going to turn right and then run,” he said quietly.

He could feel each heartbeat as the intersection grew nearer. He casually stepped to the right, and with a quick glance behind him, they turned the corner.

“Now, go. Run!”

They broke into a sprint. Tires screeched behind them. The car swung right at the intersection and hit another car. Rhett glanced back and saw it pull away from the accident to keep following them.

“Down here.”

He pulled her behind him as he ducked in between two houses. He ran up one of the driveways as the car’s headlights turned on them.

Hopping a chainlink fence, they ran around to the back of the house. The car had stopped and pulled out of the driveway. They ran up to the patio and he tried forcing the sliding glass door open, but it wouldn’t budge. He pulled out his weapon and fired a round at the lock, the small hunk of metal falling to the wooden patio. They threw the door open and vanished inside.

Two people, older, sat on furniture that was covered with plastic. They were both smoking and had beers out on the coffee table. Staring at them in disbelief, the couple didn’t say anything as Rhett ran past them to the front door.

“Sorry,” Stephanie said as she ran by.

Rhett opened the door and looked out. The car was gone. He pulled Stephanie out onto the porch, searching up and down the street but he didn’t see it.

“Let’s go.”

Walking to the sidewalk, they turned and bolted in the opposite direction of the motel, Rhett’s eyes darting in all directions.

“Aren’t we going to get our things?” she asked.

“No.”

They were up about half a block before headlights flashed on across the street, and the car peeled out of a driveway, barreling toward them. Rhett grabbed Stephanie and flung her out of the way as he ran to the right, drawing the car’s attention. It sped toward him and he leapt just as it crashed through the fence behind him and into a yard. The car spun on the grass as Rhett reached for Stephanie’s arm. They darted up the road.

Crossing the street, they turned into an alley behind a grocery store. He looked back and saw that the car was gone, the owners of the home standing outside, looking at the damage to their property. Rhett turned toward the grocery store entrance and they went inside. He went to the electronics section and picked out a pay-as-you-go phone. At the register, he began transferring his contacts.

“What are you doing?”

“They’re tracking us somehow. My phone’s encrypted but I think they hacked it and that’s how they’re doing it.”

When his contacts were transferred and he had emailed himself contents from the notebook applications, he reset the phone and threw it in the trash as they headed outside. Walking slowly through the parking lot, he watched the cars as they pulled in. He took out his weapon, and approached a car with a couple in it that had just pulled up.

“No,” Stephanie said, holding his arm.

“We need a car.”

“Not by stealing it.”

He watched as the couple got out and walked past.

“Let’s call a cab,” she said. “I know someplace safe we can go.”

CHAPTER 35

Henri sat at a coffee shop and sipped an espresso and nibbled biscotti. He had two files open on his laptop: Isaac Rhett and Gustav Fabrice. It was amazing how similar the men actually were.

This information was not cheap to get and French intelligence made it clear to him this was a favor that they expected to collect on one day. The information in the folders was classified, but anything could be bought from any agency. Government employees made just enough to get by, and when people were just getting by, deals could be made.

He had once corrupted a CIA operative when he was in the intelligence field before joining Interpol. A young man by the name of James. The man had worked at a telecommunications company as a cover, and Henri had discovered him through contacts at the company. He befriended him and they began frequenting bars and picking up girls or playing tennis and watching movies. Henri understood that undercover work was difficult. Not because of the work itself, but because you can’t be honest with anyone. You have to have a mask on at all times and this creates an intense loneliness. After a brief friendship, James confessed to him why he was in France.

Slowly, Henri convinced him that the French government was far superior to work for and more lucrative. The boy turned and began feeding him information.

Henri didn’t feel remorse at the time for betraying his friendship because he knew it was in the best interests of his country. At that age, he would have done anything for his country.

What a fool I was, he thought.

Henri took another sip of the espresso, which was bland, and began reading the files again. All of Isaac Rhett’s family had passed away as had Gustav’s. Isaac was raised by his grandparents, as his parents were both alcoholics who were in and out of his life. His last-known address was in Alaska: Henri guessed it was a fake.

No information was available about Gustav’s early years. He didn’t appear on the map until secondary school—the equivalent of high school—when he became a national chess champion: chess a skill he and Rhett shared. After high school he obtained a degree in literature from the University of Paris, which he attended on a scholarship, and then he had a period of no history for almost ten years. A complete blank with no known addresses, phone numbers, or places of employment. The next time he came back on the radar was when he began work for the Central Intelligence Agency in their paramilitary division: the same division Isaac Rhett had been recruited into. Henri wondered if the men knew each other.

He picked up his phone and dialed. A man answered in English.

“Yes?”

“This is Henri Abbott. I am calling with a request.”

“Of course, Inspector. What can we do for you?”

“I am attempting to locate a man named Isaac Rhett with a birthday of nine twelve seventy-nine. His last-known address is false.”

“One moment please.”

Henri looked out the window at the people passing by. It always fascinated him that he could take a short plane ride and be in a completely different culture. One that held different values and prejudices. The difference between Paris and New York was not very substantial. All big cities were essentially the same. But though he worked in Paris three days a week, he lived in a village of two hundred, and Manhattan seemed as alien to him as any foreign planet.

“Inspector Abbott?”

“Yes.”

“We have the information you have requested. A false credit card known to be associated with Mr. Rhett was used at the Garden Line Motel ninety-seven miles from your location. Shall I forward the address to you?”

“Yes, please. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“That was all.”

Henri hung up, paid, and headed out the door. The hotel was only a couple hours’ drive from here.

CHAPTER 36

Rhett negotiated on a mid-sized SUV with a dealer, who had a ponytail. They had spent the night at another hotel, and Rhett had sat in a chair facing the front door. Without any sleep, he felt exhaustion in his muscles and an encroaching headache signaling a migraine later on. When he was in his twenties, he could stay up for two or three days straight with little ill effect. Now time had taken away that asset. Time would slowly chip at all his physical strengths and he hoped he wouldn’t have to rely on them his entire life.

He would have to register the car and provide identification to the dealer. He would have preferred not to, even with fake identification, but Stephanie insisted they not steal a car.

As they pulled off the lot and onto the main road, Rhett looked to Stephanie in the passenger seat. Her head was against the window, and she was absently staring at the passing shops and gas stations.

“I thought we should buy you some new clothes,” he said.

“Sure.” She looked to him. “This man that’s chasing us. You know him pretty well, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“How well?”

“Well enough to know that we need to find a way out of the country as quickly as possible.”

“You still have your passport. You could just hop on a plane and leave any time.”

He shook his head. “He’s too smart for that. He’ll have men at the airports. He’s probably alerted Homeland Security that I had something to do with Paul’s death. That’s what I would do if I were him: get the government to do my work for me.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s…extremely dangerous. Unstable. People are in my line of work for only two reasons: patriotism if they’re young and naïve, and money if they’re older. He doesn’t care about either. I don’t think he cares about anything. It’s about the hunt for him. That’s it.”

“He didn’t try very hard to come after us at the motel.”

“No. He’s playing with me. But eventually, he’ll get bored. Where are we going?”

“Upstate. Get on the interstate here.”

As they drove, Rhett listened to soft jazz music and Stephanie slept. He found himself glancing to her every so often. He told himself it was just to make sure she was okay.

They stopped at a gas station after a couple of hours and Rhett went inside for some drinks after setting up the pump. He walked around the store, stretching his neck, and then urinated in the filthy bathroom, using a paper towel as a type of glove so he wouldn’t have to actually touch anything. When he went out front again, he noticed the newspapers on the stand. The New York Times had an article about Stephanie and her disappearance. He quickly skimmed it. The police were now saying she was their prime suspect in the murder of her husband. Paul’s family was offering a reward for information on her whereabouts.

Luckily, the picture they used was at least a year old and with her hair dyed and cut short, on just a glance, she didn’t look the same. He paid and went out to the car. He finished pumping before sitting down next to her.

“I think we should leave the state,” he said. “There’re towns in Texas and Kentucky you could disappear in and no one would find you.”

“I don’t want to just disappear. I want my life back.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“I have to try.”

“Where is it you want to go exactly?”

“There’s a man named Clarence Fillmore. He’s one of my biggest donors and he’s been there with me through everything. He has money and contacts, and I know he’s going to help me.”

“And if he calls the police instead?”

“He won’t. I know him.” She glanced away to a car that had pulled up and then back to him. “You don’t have to come with me. You’ve done enough already. If you just want to drop me off and leave, I understand.”

Rhett tapped the steering wheel with his finger. He did this a long while before starting the car and pulling away from the station.

CHAPTER 37

Henri came to a stop at the Garden Line Motel on the New York/Pennsylvania border near Lake Eerie. It was morning now and a light fog hung over the streets, the glow from the streetlights illuminating no more than a few feet and leaving the rest in darkness. He stepped out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, looking over the motel. On the ground, black with tire marks and dirt, was yellow police tape.

Henri walked up to the courtyard and looked around. He approached the front door and entered the motel. An older woman stood behind the counter.

“Hello,” he said.

“What d’ya need?”

He pulled out a photo of Isaac Rhett. “I am looking for this man.”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Would you mind looking at the picture please?”

“Hey, asshole, I said I haven’t seen him.”

Henri pulled out his Interpol badge. “Please look again.”

The woman glanced down at the badge, not long enough to read the agency, and sighed. Interpol, technically, had no jurisdiction in the United States without cooperation from the local agency. But few, if any, people understood this.

“Haven’t seen him. We’re dealing with enough problems.”

“What happened here?”

“What, you haven’t talked to your cop buddies? My clerk was shot.”

“Really? When was this?”

“Night before last. The detectives was all over my motel, talkin’ to people and scarin’ the shit outta ’em. I told ’em to take it easy and not go around bangin’ on people’s doors, but they did anyway. I’m thinkin’ of filin’ a complaint.”

“Did they find the man who did it?”

“No. And they took my surveillance video, which I want back. I use the same tape.”

Henri nodded. “Did the video show who shot your clerk?”

“How the hell should I know? I haven’t watched it.”

“Of course. Eh, did the detectives leave a card?”

“Yeah, hang on.” As she bent down and ruffled through a drawer, Henri glanced behind her and saw the blood stains on the wall and carpet. “Here it is.”

Henri copied the case information into his phone. “Thank you very much.”

As he was walking out, she yelled, “Hey, when do I get my tape back? And who’s going to come and clean up this mess?”

He ignored her and went out to his car. As he did so, he noticed a group of men sitting on the steps leading up to the second floor. He checked his watch: it was just a little past 7:00 a.m. and they were already drinking beer.

He approached them. “Good morning,” he said. “Were you gentlemen here when the front-desk clerk was shot?”

“We already talked to the cops, man.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Told ’em we didn’t see nothin’.”

“Ah, but that’s not true, is it?”

The men didn’t say anything. Henri had studied criminology and one of the most interesting aspects of it was the growing distrust of police in the United States. Many people identified more with the criminals than with the police and saw them as the bigger threat. In some cities, such as Baltimore, prosecutors only had a thirty percent conviction rate for the simple fact that the juries didn’t trust the officers testifying on the stand.

Henri pulled out his wallet, withdrew two hundred dollars, and held it out. “It stays between us.”

The man took it. “Yeah, we seen somebody.”

Henri took out the photo of Rhett. “Was it this man?”

“Nah, nah that ain’t him.”

He opened his phone and flipped open a file, expanding a photo of Gustav Fabrice. “Was it this man?”

“Yeah, that him right there.”

Henri nodded. “What kind of car was he driving?”

“Red Cadi. Nice.”

“Cadi?”

“Cadillac.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you for your help.”

On the way to his car, he stopped at the sidewalk and looked across the street, scanning the storefronts and the other motel located just down the block. He got back into his car and began heading to the nearest police precinct.

September 1st

We stood in formation with thin Kevlar vests on. It was raining and the water soaked us and got in our eyes. The sky was the color of smoke and filled with clouds. The forest floor sank beneath our feet and I shivered though I tried not to show it. Heather stood next to me, her teeth chattering.

Gustav stood before us with a pistol. “This is a Desert Eagle .45 caliber pistol. It is wet and it is covered in mud. For a gun to fire, it requires three things: oxygen, fuel, and an ignition source. The firing pin is the ignition source and the gunpowder is the fuel.” A small puddle had gathered in front of him. He bent over and put the gun in the water until it was fully submerged.

“So we’re missing oxygen. Will this gun still fire?” He looked to the recruit to my left, a man named Christopher. “Recruit, will this gun fire?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Would you bet a thousand dollars that this gun won’t fire?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Would you bet your life?”

Christopher hesitated.

“Ah, see. It’s amazing how much we know until something serious is at stake. And then all our knowledge gets thrown out the window, as you Americans like to say.”

He fired the pistol and the round went into Christopher’s Kevlar vest, and he toppled over with a groan. It took him a moment before he straightened up.

“The oxygen is in the gunpowder. There are things that you cannot perceive but that are true. Be wary of your surroundings and always have an open mind.”

The next day, after a twenty-mile run with fifty-pound packs, we worked explosives. We made nitroglycerin out of products you could find in almost any home. Glycerin left over from a batch of homemade soap mixed with gasoline or crushed kitty litter. By the end of the day, we were all black with soot and exhausted to the point that we couldn’t move. Heather walked back with me to the bunks and asked if I wanted to get a drink. I said I did.

We went to a nearby bar about five miles from the compound and ordered nachos and beers. “Can I ask you something?” I said. “Why did you say yes to this? You could have been in the intel section and sat behind a desk. I heard you have a medical degree too. You could have been a doctor for any agency you wanted.”

She looked at me and said, “Everybody said I wouldn’t make it. So I had to prove them wrong.”

When we got back to the compound, we passed the driving course and the town, which we called Taintsville for reasons I couldn’t say, but everybody guessed it was a joke started by the first class. The town had about twenty houses, a school, a police station, a park, and a few restaurants. They were filled with realistic props and their point was to train us for urban warfare.

“I don’t feel like going back yet,” she said. We found a house in Taintsville and went inside. I sat on the couch and tried the remote for the television but it didn’t work. She sat next to me and put her head on my shoulder, and we stared at the black television screen as the rain pattered on the windows outside. I let her sleep for a long while.

On the way to our bunks, I saw Gustav up in his room. The door was open a crack and I glanced in. He was nude and on his knees, doing some kind of stretching. I thought somebody was in the room because he was having a conversation, but I didn’t see anyone else there.

CHAPTER 38

Rhett slept in the passenger seat while Stephanie drove for the last hour. When he awoke they were in a section of the state he didn’t recognize: a place reserved for only the most wealthy. The mansions looked like plantations of the old South and each one was set far enough back that no one inside could be bothered by any noise from the street. It had stopped raining and the well-manicured bushes glistened from the remaining water.

They pulled up to a gate. Stephanie got out and approached a comm box, which she used to call up to the house. The gate opened a few seconds later, and they drove up the long, winding driveway to the massive home.

At the door a maid offered to take their jackets, but since they weren’t wearing any she just shuffled them inside the house. She led them up to the second floor and to a large balcony overlooking the property. Rhett saw a portly man sitting at a table having tea and finger sandwiches. He was on the phone and hung up on seeing them. He rose to his feet.

“Stephanie! What the hell is going on? Do you know the FBI is looking for you? I called your office fifty tim—”

“I know. I need to talk to you.”

“Who is this?” Clarence said, looking at Rhett.

“A friend. Please, can we sit down?”

“Sure.”

As Stephanie sat down at the table and began going through everything that had occurred, Rhett wandered around the various rooms. One was a trophy room with the heads of assorted animals up on the walls. A stuffed lion claiming one of the corners. Rhett went to it and ran his hand along the mane. Up above loomed the mounted head of a rhino.

In another room he found every rifle, sword, and shield that man had used through the centuries. A Roman gladius was encased in glass on the wall next to a German World War II Ruger next to a Mongolian spear. Rhett studied each one. They were in exquisite condition. He was there about half an hour before coming across a curved long sword from Arabia. Its edge was crusted with a black material that looked like blood.

“You’re a weapons man?”

Rhett turned to see Clarence standing at the doorway.

“You could say that.”

“Look at this,” Clarence said, waddling over to a case on the far side of the room. He pulled out a rifle. “This assassinated an SS soldier who gave orders for a village to be cleared in Southern France, where my family is from. My great uncle went out to his barn—and this is a man that didn’t have any military training; he was just a farmer—he went out to the barn, pointed the weapon, and fired two rounds. One of them went through that German’s temple. They killed him after that. They set the barn on fire and when he ran out, they shot him.”

“This is an amazing collection.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “So it sounds like you two are in a bit of trouble.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, you did the right thing coming here. Can I ask you something, though? What do you care what happens to her?”

“I guess I don’t.”

Clarence looked at him a moment. “Guess not.” He put the rifle back in the case. “Well, she’s in good hands. Your obligation is over.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“You’d be surprised, as I first was, how much justice money can buy. We’ll clear this mess up quickly. I mean, she’s clearly innocent.”

“Maybe I should stay?”

“No reason for it. Unless you feel there is.”

“No, no it’s fine. She should get back to her life without me hanging around.”

“I would think so.” Clarence sat down in a chair that was against the wall. “I’m not going to ask about your background or how you met her. She wouldn’t tell me. She just said you helped her when she needed it. But I think I can guess. So I’ll take over now. She’ll be fine. To be perfectly blunt, she asked that you leave. I don’t think she wanted to tell you herself because of how much you’ve helped her.”

He nodded. “Tell her goodbye for me.”

“I will.”

Rhett walked into the hallway. The maid was there, and she smiled as she led him down the hall. He glanced back once but didn’t see Stephanie anywhere.

In the driver’s seat, he turned on the car but couldn’t bring himself to put it in drive. He kept glancing back to the mansion. He sat maybe five minutes before pulling down the driveway.

About halfway down, he heard a spit, and a hole appeared in his windshield.

Another spit and searing pain radiated from his shoulder. He ducked in his seat as bullets shattered the windshield and rear window. They began piercing the car doors and one got through and hit him in the chest. The car swerved to the right, the impact from a tree sending him into the dashboard. He reached for the pistol in his waistband when a face appeared in the driver’s side window.

“Hello, Isaac. How have you been?”

CHAPTER 39

Henri parked his car in front of the police precinct and stepped outside to sit on the hood. He took out a package of cigarettes, Belgian with no filters, and smoked. The sky, which had been dark and gray, began to clear to a soft hue of orange as the sun began to shine through the clouds. He took out his cell phone and called his home. His son answered, informing him his mother had left for the market.

“Tell her that I love you both and I miss you.”

“Okay, Papa. I love you too.”

When he finished smoking, he went inside and asked the front-desk receptionist for the detective working the shooting at the Garden Line.

“He’ll be out in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

He sat on an old couch and flipped through some magazines on a coffee table. They were mostly gun magazines, a few Sports Illustrateds, and he put them back and leaned into the couch, staring at the floor of the police precinct.

Cops were busy swapping war stories, giving each other a hard time, joking about cases, and complaining about superior officers. It made him grin: no matter where you went, cops were always the same.

Before long, a pudgy detective in a wrinkled suit came out. “I’m Detective Karl Loosle. What can I do for you?”

“You are the detective working the Garden Line shooting?”

“Yeah.”

“I believe I can help you.” Henri stood and took out his Interpol badge. “The man that did this, that I think did this, was in one of our prisons in Paris until about five days ago.”

“You sure it’s him?”

“It’s my understanding you have a video of the incident?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyeing him.

“I can identify him. Detective, I have no interest in your investigation. If you arrest this man, it is your arrest. I just want to help you.”

He was silent a moment. “Come in the back.”

Henri followed him around the bullpen, past the officers who were lounging around and drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups, and through a gray door that led into a long hallway. Two doors down on the right was a room set up with a DVD/TV combo, a desk, and some chairs. Henri sat in one of the chairs as the detective took a DVD, which had been on top of the TV, out of a slip and put it into the machine. A grainy black-and-white video came on.

Henri watched as it caught a glimpse of a man walking out of the Garden Line Motel, firing two rounds into the clerk. The man didn’t even have to glance the clerk’s way and yet both rounds hit the heart. He went outside, disappeared off camera a few moments, and then got into a red car and drove away.

“That him?”

“Oui. That is him.”

“Here’s what I don’t get,” the detective said, “three blocks up the road some poor bastard was walking his bicycle across the street and witnesses said a red Cadillac sped up and ran him over. No reason at all. He’d already gotten far enough away from the motel and it actually drew more attention to him to do that. I don’t get it.”

“It amused him.”

“What did?”

“To see that man die.” They exchanged glances. “Do you know who the car belongs to?”

“Yeah, we traced it down based on the plates. The owner’s been dead almost ten years.”

Henri nodded and rose. “Thank you for showing me the video.”

“Well, is it for certain?”

“What?”

“That that’s the man you’re looking for.”

“Yes, I’m certain that’s him.”

“Well I’d like to spend some time with you then and get his information.”

“You won’t find him in any databases, Detective, and he has many names.”

“You have any idea where he is?”

Henri brushed past him and into the hall. “No. But I think I know where he’s going.”

CHAPTER 40

It was nearly midnight when Vanessa Hailstorm looked up at the clock and realized she’d been at her computer for four hours straight. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned before looking out the windows to the streets of Washington, DC, below.

She remembered this town from a long time ago. She counted the years it had been since she was an intern in Congress from George Washington University: twenty-one years. Twenty-one. Looking back, it seemed like a tick of the clock but the time was obvious in the city’s nature. It had changed.

She remembered, as an intern, going to dinners and out for drinks, Democrats and Republicans, interns and senators, and joking around and trading barbs. She remembered reporters were there too, but there was an understanding that these were intimate moments between friends and they never betrayed that trust.

Now, your own staff sold you out to the papers for a few bucks and the hatred between the parties was so deep, they could barely speak to each other in private much less be seen in public together. Each politician was after reelection and getting rich. That was why almost every politician went into politics, Vanessa thought: wealth.

It was amazing to her that the public didn’t ask how a congressman going into the house or senate making $90,000 per year came out a millionaire. It was a simple loophole: members of Congress were allowed to insider trade. When they found out that a piece of land was about to be developed or a major bank was going to be under investigation by the SEC, they simply bought the land or shorted that bank’s stocks. In Congress, a monkey with a few bucks could become a millionaire.

But even so, she remembered a different generation of politicians that, at least on some level, had the public interest at heart.

She clicked off her computer and grabbed her purse before heading out of the office. The building was empty now except for security and she nodded to one of the guards that let her out through the back exit to employee parking.

Her car, a Mercedes, was parked on the second level. As she walked down the metal stairs, she heard footsteps behind her. She kept walking, pretending not to notice, and casually slipped her hand inside her purse.

She swung around with the .25 caliber Smith & Wesson and pointed it at Santos Aras’ face. He held up his hands in mock surrender, an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hand.

“You got me.”

She put the gun away. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he said, lighting the cigarette.

“This is my job.”

“Is it?” He blew out a puff of smoke and looked out over the parking lot. “Have you been keeping tabs on your gentleman?”

“And what gentleman would that be?”

“Gustav Fabrice.”

“Yes.”

“Really? When was the last time he checked in?”

“Two days ago.”

“Well in that time, he’s killed three people. Including some poor bastard out riding his bicycle.”

Vanessa didn’t say anything.

“No witty retort, Vanessa?” He blew out a puff of smoke. “Just who the hell did you hire?”

“He came highly recommended.”

“Do you know his name’s not Gustav Fabrice?” He exhaled smoke.

“I had some idea. He worked for the CIA before freelancing.”

“And for the KGB before the Berlin Wall. I’m guessing you didn’t get that far into his background.”

“I was thorough.”

“The guy’s a psychopath.”

“Gimme a break, Santos. They’re all psychopaths. We train psychopaths and then expect them to come back to society and be normal. Well it doesn’t work that way. You can’t unlearn what we teach them.”

“Pull him out of the field and get this fucker out of my country. Now. He’s putting us all at risk.”

“And what about the marks?”

“They’re already taken care of.” Santos took one last pull and stubbed the cigarette out on the railing in front of him. He threw the butt off the side of the building. “The Messenger says we may need to reevaluate your contract at the end of this term. You better show them you have something to offer.”

As Santos turned and walked away, Vanessa said, “Who is he, Santos?”

“Who said he was a ‘he’? Besides, you’ll meet the Messenger soon enough.”

February 12th

We were married almost as soon as we had left the academy and gone into the field. I was twenty now and she was twenty-one. Since she spoke fluent Chinese, she was recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency to analyze intel out of Shantou. I thought I would be taking a job as an OO with them but that wasn’t offered. They had brought me out here specifically for that, and I thought that maybe I hadn’t done well on my exams. We had brutal, five-day, twelve-hour-long written exams and then a grueling week of pain, exertion, and starvation before we officially graduated. Two years of our lives went into this training, and by the time we were through, we weren’t sure we could ever do anything else. Only three of us had made it and I thought that maybe they had recruited the other young man, the Texan, for the job, that maybe I just wasn’t good enough to make it.

Heather chose to complete her residency before moving to Shantou. She did one year and was so bored by the end that she called the CIA and begged for her job back. At this point I was just following her around and I still don’t know why. The year of her residency I just sat around, somewhat depressed, and would go for long walks or to the local library or the gym, which is where I spent most of my time.

But the CIA accepted her back and we were stationed in DC so we moved there. We got a small apartment overlooking the river and she would work from sunup to sundown. At night we would go out to bars and clubs and restaurants. Some days she had off, not many, but some, and we would go to museums or sessions of Congress or the Supreme Court. At the time, we thought government was interesting.

One day, I think it was in May, I was walking back to my car from a building downtown. I had applied for a job as an office clerk and I thought that I would be going to college part-time as well. I got to my car and heard a voice behind me. It belonged to a beautiful blond woman with glasses.

“We have an offer for you,” she said.

“Offer with who?”

“I think you can guess.”

“With the CIA?”

“No, not with the CIA. Not officially.”

“Who then?”

“You’re going to be defending this country in a way no one else will. It will be direct, no bureaucrats or paperwork. But it comes at a price. You will never live the same way again. You will never see this country the same way again. You will be revolted at first, but that will fade. If you are a spiritual man, what you will see will push that out of your life. You will be giving up what and who you are for this. But the money is unlike anything you could make elsewhere. And with secrets comes power: anything that is in secret has a lot of power, and you will be filled with them. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then come with me now.”

“What about my car?”

“You won’t need it anymore.”

CHAPTER 41

Pain woke him up. An intense burning in his chest and shoulder. As he gained consciousness, a dullness pulsed in his upper thigh. Opening his eyes, he saw a gray sky above him, squared and blocked off. His vision coming into focus, he could tell he was staring through a backseat window. He felt the motion of the car now and the heater, which was softly blowing warm, stale air over his forehead.

The car slowed and then turned and the sky was replaced with thick trees.

“Are you awake, Isaac?”

Rhett said nothing. He pulled on the handcuffs, but they were so tight, they cut his skin. The road grew more uneven until the car finally stopped. A door opened and he felt hands pull him outside and the coolness of a forest after a rain. The ground was wet and his feet sank. It was only now he realized that he was blindfolded but could see out of the bottom of the cloth. A shove from behind prompted him to take careful steps forward.

The ground was more than wet and his feet were sucked into mud with each step: they were in a swamp. He could hear a bird off to his right and then the flapping of wings.

“You look good,” an accented voice said from behind him. “Fit.”

“How did you find me?”

“The better question is why I found you.”

“I have some idea.”

“You have more enemies than the last time I saw you.”

“Seems like it,” Rhett said, glancing down to a patch of poison ivy.

“You had the mark, Isaac. Why did you not take her down when you had the chance?”

“It amused me more to keep her alive.”

“Hm. Is that really it…I don’t think so. She does look like her. You’re not imagining that.”

Rhett was silent a moment. “What do you want from me?”

“You? Nothing. Turn right up this path.”

“Why did they take the contract?”

“She was fighting for a law in Congress that upset some people. Regulation of large banks, I believe. It affected their pocketbooks, I imagine, and they viewed getting rid of her as the easier path.”

A small trail led through a cover of trees and into an opening. The water grew deep and murky and it came up to his calves. They walked for several minutes without speaking. Rhett didn’t feel his pistol on him. He couldn’t hear the traffic from the road anymore.

He couldn’t help himself as he said, “You don’t have to do this.”

Gustav laughed. “How many marks have said the same thing to you? And you thought to yourself that you would never say such a thing when the time came for you, no? But you did. You also think you can face it like a man. With your eyes open. But you can’t. You’ll close your eyes. And you’ll beg. Stop here.”

Rhett heard nothing but his own heartbeat. “Is she dead?”

“Oh, so it was her, the resemblance. She must be quite a woman to turn you so weak. No, she’s not dead. Or maybe she is, I can’t remember.” He chuckled softly.

“If she’s still alive, I’ll give you my bank account information in exchange for her life. Six million, Gustav. You can have it.”

“You know I don’t care about money. Desperation does not look well on you.”

“What do you care about?”

He was silent.

“Gustav—”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What should I call you?”

“Nothing. I am nothing, just like you are nothing. We’re ghosts. Half in this world and half in the next. We don’t belong here. One day I’ll be standing where you are and I’ll be as weak as you when it comes. We all are weak. But for now, it is your misfortune. That’s what it comes down to. Fortune. Do you know the difference between the slavery of Rome and the slavery of America? The Romans did not think Greeks were a different, inferior species. They knew they were human. And felt that the Gods had simply shown them disfavor by making them slaves.

“But in American slavery, the black was an animal. Not human. It was far more brutal in America than in Rome, though we like to pretend that our age is the more enlightened. Fortune was all the Romans believed in. It is all that matters in the end.”

Rhett hadn’t been listening. He spun around with both arms, an attempt to knock any weapon away. He caught empty air. He pulled off the blindfold just in time to see two flashes of orange as the rounds entered him. He lurched forward. Gustav elbowed him in the chin. Rhett attempted to kick at his groin but he easily stepped aside. Rhett tried strike after strike, but couldn’t hit him. He was too fast. He was better than him.

Out of breath, Rhett stood silently as Gustav stared at him.

“Are you done?”

Rhett said defiantly, “Give me your best.”

Gustav fired another round into the heart. He flew off his feet into the water.

He floated for several moments, sucking in breath as blood poured out of him. Gustav stood above, a grin on his face, his head tilted to the side, as Rhett slowly sank. Gustav bent down and reached into the water. He pulled out a little red notebook that was in Rhett’s breast pocket.

Rhett tried to reach for it but couldn’t. The world was blurring to broken, watery images. And then, there was nothing but the sounds that only creatures living underwater could hear, before the world went dark.

The last thing he heard was another soft spit from the pistol as a round entered his brain.

CHAPTER 42

Gustav drove on the freeway a long time. Hours. Until his gas tank was empty and the car sputtered. He pulled over on the side of the road and checked his watch: it was 12:27 in the morning. He got out of his car and began walking along the freeway. The rain had stopped but it was cold and wind was blowing. He could see headlights behind him as cars sped past him, his hair tussling in the wind and irritating his eyes.

He looked back and saw a lone car coming up. He stepped in front of it and stood staring at the headlights. The car slammed on its brakes, swerving into the next lane, the driver blaring the horn. Gustav walked to the driver’s side door. A woman was driving. He tried the door and it was unlocked.

“Move over please.”

“Who the f—”

He pulled out his pistol and placed the muzzle against her cheek. The look that came over her eyes he had seen dozens, hundreds, thousands of times. It was a look of resignation to fear. Her brain had shut off, all except the limbic system. Only two emotions remained inside her, fear and rage, and she didn’t know which one to feel. He didn’t allow her a chance to decide.

He directed her to the passenger seat, took over her spot, and began to drive. Placing the pistol on his lap, he put on his seatbelt. A Johnny Cash song was playing over the radio and he turned it up as he merged into another lane and continued down the road.

He looked to her. She was young and stylish with a scarf around her neck and a Tibetan Buddhist symbol dangling from a leather necklace. Jack Kerouac’s On the Road sat on the dashboard. The copy looked worn.

“Are you in college?” She didn’t respond. “Are you in college?”

“Wa…was.”

“You left?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

She swallowed. “You can have the car and my purse. Please, just let me out here. I won’t even call the police. You’ll—”

“Shhh…why did you leave college?”

“What?”

“College. Why did you leave college?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? One day you just woke up and were sitting in class and you went home and never went back?”

“Something like that.”

“What did you study?”

“Poetry.”

“Mmm, you know my people invented poetry. Who was your favorite poet?”

She shook her head.

“Mine,” he said, going into the car pool lane, “was Baudelaire. Are you familiar with Baudelaire?” She shook her head. “He writes mostly about love. But his love is always tainted with death. He understood death. Most poets have to force themselves to write about death but it was natural for him. Nous aurons des lits pleins d’odeurs légères, / Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux, / Et d’étranges fleurs sur des étagères, / Ecloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux. Do you know what that means? Did you study French?”

“No.”

“We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes, divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves will be strange flowers that blossomed for us, under more beautiful heavens…‘The Death of Lovers.’ It’s my favorite poem.” He glanced to her and back to the road. “What’s your name?”

“Billie.”

“Billie? That is an unusual name for a girl, no?”

“My parents wanted a boy.”

“I see. I wasn’t my parents’ first choice either.”

“Where are we going? Because you can just drop me off right here. I can just walk until morning so that you have time to—”

He reached over and slapped her face hard enough that her hand went to her lip. It was cut and began to bleed and he let the moment hang in the air a while. “You will speak when I ask you a question, not before. But since you are curious, ask me again.”

She was silent a moment. “Ask you what?” she said softly. “Where are we going?”

“Hell, my darling Billie. We are going to hell, all of us.”

CHAPTER 43

Henri sat in the terminal of the airport and called his wife. It was early morning there but he knew she would be up. She could never sleep without him there. His six-year-old answered and they spoke about what was planned for the day and what he was having for breakfast.

“Will you be coming for breakfast, Papa?”

“No, my darling. But I will be home soon. Put your mother on please.”

“Okay, love you, Papa.”

“Love you too.”

“He misses you,” his wife said, getting on the line. “He thinks you went out to the store. That’s what I used to tell them when you would be out all night. That you were at a faraway store getting very special groceries. It made them feel better but now I think it was a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I didn’t sleep much last night. Perhaps the neighbor should come over and warm my bed? He is just twenty.”

He grinned. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“No, I’m just saying a young woman like myself perhaps needs a younger man.”

“You shouldn’t say such things. Men age better than women. Our stock grows while yours dwindles.”

“Such things you say. Will you say that to your daughter?”

“No, I won’t.” He exhaled. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. How much longer?”

“I don’t think too much longer. I’m going one last place, and if I don’t find what I’m looking for I’ll just leave.”

“Do you think it will be there?”

“I don’t know.” His phone buzzed, indicating an incoming call. It was his assistant at Interpol. “I better go. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Henri switched lines. “This is Henri.”

“Bad news, my friend. They found both marks.”

“Where?”

“About two hours from where you are.”

Henri had to change flights and rent another car. He followed the GPS directions and only got lost once when he missed his exit on the interstate. The town, Hurricane, was small and the police precinct was in what looked like a confined, one-story office building. He parked outside and smoked a cigarette to steady his nerves before going in.

Two uniformed police officers stood by the front desk, snacking on bagels and coffee. Henri smiled at them and showed his badge.

“I am Henri Abbott. My assistant should have called.”

“Yeah,” one of the officers said, “he called. “I’m the deputy sheriff.” He held out his hand. “Tom Wasden.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking hands.

“You too. You here for the bodies, huh?”

“I just need to see them.”

“Well they’re at the hospital morgue up there about four blocks. I’ll go with you.”

“I appreciate it.”

They rode in a police cruiser and Henri had the urge to smoke again but stopped himself. Instead he took out a cigarette and let it dangle from his lips unlit.

“Helluva nasty habit.”

“I know,” Henri said. “My wife is trying to get me to quit. She may succeed soon too.”

“I quit some odd five or six years ago. The money I saved I’ve been puttin’ in a college fund for the kids. You got kids?”

“I do.”

“Well there ya go. Their college could be paid for.”

“College is paid for in France.”

“No shit? Everythin’?”

“Mostly.”

“No shit. How about that.”

They parked in a police parking stall and went inside. The harsh fluorescent lights made Henri squint, and it smelled like antiseptic. The floors squeaked from a recent mopping. Tom said hello to the front-desk staff and then they rode an elevator down to the bottom floor. Morgues were always on the bottom floors.

They walked down a quiet hallway and to a room at the end of the hall. A woman worked inside, surrounded with a few metal machinist’s tables with wheels. Henri could smell formaldehyde.

“Suzie, this is Henri. He’s with the French police and needs to take a quick peek at the bodies.”

“Sure thing.”

She walked over to a wall, which had several metal squares with handles over them, appearing almost like ovens. She opened two of them and pulled out metal platforms with bodies on top. They were nude and Henri noticed Tom suddenly grow uncomfortable.

“There they are, in their birthday suits. Have at it.”

“Thank you.”

Henri examined the first body. It had the Y shape of an autopsy and the skin was white, the face frozen in an expression he couldn’t identify. Three holes about four centimeters in diameter perforated his chest. All of them were over the heart: one in the left ventricle and two in the right. Another hole was in the forehead. Henri took out his phone and looked at the picture of Isaac Rhett he had been sent. It was him.

He turned to the other body. A beautiful young woman, whose radiance even death hadn’t taken away. She had a single gunshot wound to the back of the skull and Henri could only see it by bending down and looking directly at it. Small caliber. Enough velocity to enter but not to exit. Henri felt ashamed for her that he was allowed to stare at her nakedness and it dawned on him why Tom had looked away.

“Thank you,” Henri said to the woman in the lab coat.

He turned away and walked with Tom, who thanked the woman as well, saying something about seeing her at church on Sunday. They walked outside and Henri looked up to the moon, which was shining brightly in the night sky.

“Helluva thing. We don’t get many murders up here. Last one was some odd ten years ago. Two teenagers out in the swamps. They were shooting bottles and got into a tussle over somethin’ and one shot the other one with a twenty-two rifle. Wouldn’t have killed him if it hit him anywhere but the liver, but it did and he died in the hospital.” He shook his head. “Now we got two of them right here.”

“Where did you find their bodies?”

“Swampland about thirty minutes from here. Some kids found him, and she floated up when we were out there for him. Helluva thing. And on top of that, we had a carjacking too.”

“Carjacking?”

“Yeah, car robbery. Right there on the freeway about an hour from here. See our county’s pretty big; we don’t have a big population but the county’s big. And we picked that one up too.”

“What happened?”

“One witness said he was driving by and he saw a man step out onto the freeway and just stand there. Didn’t move or anything, just stood there. A car had to stop so as not to hit him, and when it did, he got into the driver’s side. We know it was a carjacking ’cause the witness saw a gun. Well he says he saw a gun.”

“Sheriff, can you forward me the make and model of the car and the registered owner’s information?”

He shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, come on, I’ll give you a lift back to your car.”

“I appreciate it but I feel like walking. I could use the air.”

“Okay. Lemme know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you. And, Sheriff, if you see this man, or capture him or think you have captured him, please know that he has killed several people in a few days for nothing more than pleasure. He will do the same to you if he is given the opportunity. Do not take any risks.”

Tom looked to him but didn’t say anything. He just turned away and got in his car and drove off. Henri watched him go and then glanced back to the hospital. He had seen Gustav put many people in morgues just like this and each time felt like the first.

He sighed and walked away, keeping his head down to the ground, lost in thought.

CHAPTER 44

The motel was old but clean, and the clerk behind the counter smiled and spoke softly. Billie Gell felt the man’s hand on her bicep, and as he was paying for a room, he signed everything with his left hand. She didn’t know why she made a note of that, but she did.

After he was given the room key, he walked her down the hall and her heart dropped. She was frightened he would rape her. She didn’t know how she would react. Her friend had been raped at a frat party once and she said she was so drunk she didn’t fight. She had just lain there. Billie didn’t see herself doing that. She thought that even if he killed her, she would fight.

At the room’s door, he unlocked it and pushed her inside. He looked down both sides of the hallway and then followed her in, locking the door behind them. He quickly checked the bathroom and underneath the beds and then out the window. Billie stood against the wall, staring at the door. No, she wouldn’t have the chance to escape. He would just fire into her back.

He looked to her as he turned from the windows and then kicked off his shoes before sitting on the first bed. Pill bottle in hand, he swallowed two white pills without water and lay back on the bed. He reached over to turn off the light, the pistol lying across his chest. She stood silently a long time before slowly walking to the bed and sitting down. She kept looking at the door.

“You could try,” a voice said from the dark, “but you wouldn’t make it.”

“Why don’t you just let me go? I’m no use to you.”

“Even sharks have pilot fish to keep them company.”

“Is that what this is about? You just want company?”

There was no response.

She sat silently for a long time. Eventually she lay back on the bed. Sleep was going to be impossible, so she just thought about being back home in her apartment, in her bed. Her two roommates were probably drinking and having guys over right now. They wouldn’t even notice that she wasn’t there for at least a couple of days. They may call the police then. But a couple of days seemed like an eternity. She was on her own.

Billie looked over to the man. He wasn’t snoring but she could hear his breathing. He took long, deep breaths and then let them out slowly through his nose. Neither of his hands were on the pistol, which moved up and down with his breaths.

Putting the toe of one shoe on the heel of the other, she slipped off her shoes, making sure to do it close enough to the floor that they wouldn’t make noise when they fell. She used her hands to push herself up, closing her eyes tightly as if that would prevent any noise. Getting to an upright position, she gently slid off the bed until her feet touched the carpet.

Billie looked to the door and then back to the pistol. The door had a chain and a lock. He would certainly hear her, fire into her back. The pistol had a silencer and, though she’d never heard one outside of the movies, she guessed it would be quiet enough that none of the neighbors would be alerted. And even if they were, so what? She’d already be shot. But if she could get the gun…

She rose as gingerly as she could, stopping every second to try to prevent the old mattress from creaking. It creaked twice and both times she froze and looked over to the man before continuing.

Now on her feet, she felt an overwhelming urge to run to the door and go screaming down the hallway. She had to take slow, deep breaths to calm herself. She felt like crying but kept telling herself she could be frightened later…she would be frightened later. There wasn’t time now.

The first step toward his bed was the most terrifying, but the second and third were easier. She walked between the two mattresses, the only thing she could hear a rhythmic pounding of her heart. She briefly thought about grabbing the nightstand’s lamp and hitting him over the head with it. But she’d never seen it done in person, only in the movies. What if it didn’t do anything but piss him off?

She was less than a foot away from him now. She swallowed and held her breath as her arm gradually reached for the gun.

Billie stopped right above the weapon. Her hand was trembling in the moonlight creeping in through the thin openings in the curtains. Gently, she lowered her hand until she was touching the warm steel of the gun. She felt the ridges of the handle and tenderly wrapped her fingers around them as she began to lift it off the man.

Pain shot through her wrist.

The man’s arm had come up like lightning and was tightly wrapped around the bones of her arm. She tried to pull away but couldn’t. She screamed and he grabbed her and flung her on the bed, twisting around on top of her as his hand clamped over her mouth and muffled her.

“Brave girl,” he said. He lifted the weapon, the muzzle against her chest, pressing against her pounding heart.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and the man sat watching her. A long moment stretched by. He lowered the weapon. Lifting her up by her arms, he dragged her into the bathroom. He ripped the wire out of the back of a lamp and hogtied her, forcing her arms behind her back and tying them to her ankles. He tore a long piece of cloth from a sheet and tied it around her mouth.

Leaving her crying, he shut the door, and she was enveloped in the dark.

CHAPTER 45

Henri stood at the side of the road under the harsh light of the moon. He had his hands in the pockets of his jacket and could faintly see his own breath in the cold. Cars passed by and he watched them for a while before taking out his cell phone and opening a flashlight app. He scanned the ground when no cars were coming, the white light illuminating some marks. He looked at the landmarks around him, a billboard for a diet cola and a barn about thirty meters off the freeway, to make sure he was in the right place.

He bent down over the skid marks and snapped a couple of photos. They were in a long trail that snaked to the left and to the right. The car had stopped abruptly. He stood by and watched a few more cars before getting into his rental and driving away.

The address he’d been given was a fifteen-minute drive away. She had nearly been home. Henri drove through the winding streets and was impressed by how easy the address system was. Considering that in Paris sometimes all one had was the name of a street.

He parked at the curb in front of the little house and got out. A breeze was blowing now and it made the leaves of the trees around him shimmer under the moonlight and clatter like a straw broom scraping over cement. He crossed the sidewalk and the grass to the porch. It was just past ten o’clock and he could hear music coming from inside. He knocked and took a step back before pulling out his badge.

A young woman with short brunette hair and a red sweater answered. He showed her the badge, smiled, and said, “I’m looking for Billie Gell.”

“She’s not here. May I ask what this is about?”

“We believe she may have been the victim of a car…comment peut-on dire…a car theft.”

“Oh, wow. Her car got stolen?”

“Yes. Has she called you tonight?”

“No. I can call her, though, hold on.” The girl went over to a table and snatched her cell phone. She dialed a number and then held it to her ear. After several seconds, she said, “It went to voicemail.”

He nodded. “Do you have a picture of Billie here?”

“Um, yeah, I think she’s got some in her room. You wanna look?”

“Please.” She let him in. “Thank you.”

“Her room’s right over there.”

“Again, thank you.”

Henri walked on the hardwood floors to the small bedroom the girl had pointed to. He flipped on the light. The room was carpeted in a white rug that had several noticeable stains. It smelled of incense and he saw a burner on the windowsill. The bed was messy and several posters were up on the walls. A small bookshelf hunkered in the corner. Henri walked to it, quickly glancing through the books: mostly classics. Very few contemporary works. He saw a bong on one of the shelves and next to that a glass pipe.

A little shelf was bolted over the bed. It was cluttered but the item he was interested in was the photo. It was of a young girl and a man about her age. They were on a mountaintop and it appeared like they had taken the photo themselves on a phone. Henri took the picture and went out into the living room where he saw two girls and two young men sitting on the couch. They smiled but didn’t say anything and he could smell the scent of burnt marijuana.

“Is this her?”

“Yeah,” the brunette said.

“I’m going to take this with me for right now. I will return it when we find her.”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“Thank you for your help.”

Henri showed himself out and stood on the porch for several seconds, staring at the photo. He tapped the photo against his palm and then walked back to his car.

CHAPTER 46

Billie was woken by the sound of the door opening. The man stepped over her and urinated into the toilet. She felt droplets hit her face and she recoiled. When he was done, he bent down and untied her. She slipped off the gag, not saying a word, as he walked out into the room.

“We’re leaving. Wash your face.”

She did as she was told, pulling her hair back and holding it in place with a rubber band she had in her pocket. He took her arm like he had done yesterday and led her out of the room and down the hallway. She could see breakfast being served and she said, “I’m hungry.”

He stopped and looked at her. Though it terrified her to her core, she didn’t avert his gaze. He led her into the small dining area and sat her down. He fetched cereal, a bagel, orange juice, and some scrambled eggs before coming back and taking a seat.

“I don’t have a fork,” she said.

He rose without a word and got one for her. She thought about sprinting away, but something held her back. A feeling. She felt like this man would shoot her in front of as many witnesses as there happened to be around.

She began to eat. Though she wasn’t actually hungry, she didn’t want to leave with him and so she feigned gusto as she shoved eggs in her mouth and drank down the juice.

“Your accent’s French, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you from France?”

“No.”

“Where are you from?” she said with a mouthful of bagel.

“I’m from Corsica.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s an island, off the coast of Italy.”

“I thought you said you were French?”

“It is a French island.”

“What’s it like?”

He leaned back in his chair and glanced around. “It is the most beautiful place in the world. The water is as blue as crystal and the weather is always sunny and warm.”

“Do you have family there?”

“I think that is enough questions for now. Let’s go.”

“I’m not done.”

“Yes you are.”

He took her arm and led her out of the motel and through the parking lot. They got to the car before she tried to pull away.

“I’m not going,” she said.

He brought her close and without her even seeing him pull it out, she felt the pistol against her side.

“If I fire a single shot into your liver, you will die. No amount of surgery can save you.”

“Why are you doing this?” she said, panic in her voice. “Just let me go.”

He opened the passenger side door and shoved her in. She opened the door as soon as he went around to the driver’s side, and he ran back, pushing her into the backseat as he climbed into the driver’s seat and locked the doors.

“Please,” she said, crying now, “just let me go.”

He pulled out of the stall and onto the road, melting into the traffic.

CHAPTER 47

Vanessa ran on the treadmill until she nearly collapsed. The gym was empty this early in the morning and she had requested they turn off every television in order to hear only the hammering of her feet against the machine.

When she was through, she toweled off and drank water out of a neon green bottle. She headed for the locker room. Not one to even consider showering in public, she gathered her things and left the gym.

The clouds had cleared and the sun was out, the sky a light blue. She flipped on her sunglasses before walking down the sidewalk when she noticed somebody leaned against the glass doors of a coffee shop entrance.

“Henri, what a pleasant surprise.”

“You know, my grandfather used to say that working out is like masturbation.”

“Okay, so now you’ve grossed me out. What is it I can do for you?”

“We need to talk. Can I buy you a coffee?”

“No, but you can buy me a nonfat latte.”

He nodded and held the door open for her. Inside was busy and they took a table by the windows after standing in line and placing their orders. Henri got a muffin and a small coffee, which he stirred with a spoon he had in a little carrying case in his pocket.

“You carry your own spoon?” she asked.

“I worked as a dishwasher in many restaurants. I don’t trust restaurants as a consequence.”

“From dishwasher to Interpol detective. That’s gotta be an interesting story.”

“Not really.” He took a sip of the coffee. “I haven’t seen you since the United Nations conference. You look the same. Some people, time does not affect.”

“I try. How’s Collette?”

“Good. She wanted me to say hello if I happened to see you. I don’t know why she would think that. She just heard I was coming to America and you are the only American she knows.”

“She’s sweet. Too young and pretty for you, old man, but sweet.”

He grinned. “I don’t know what I did to get so lucky. What about you? No marriage plans?”

“Nothing yet,” she said. “My work sees to that.”

He nodded. “Perhaps you should find different work.”

“No, I love what I do.”

“You’re an idealist.”

“You’re not?”

He took another sip of coffee. “I was in Mexico once, following a heroin ring that had set up their shop in Bordeaux of all places. They were going to use it as a distribution center for all of Europe. I followed them to Mexico and tracked down the man I was looking for, the kingpin I guess you would call him. It took ten Interpol agents and the Mexican army to bring him down, but we did. He was charged with fifty-two counts of murder and hundreds of counts of narcotics and arms smuggling, human trafficking…the list went on and on.”

“That had to have been a good bust. What happened?”

“He was released in one day. I didn’t have enough power to hold him for even twenty-four hours. Interpol said he was working as an informant and let him go, but that was bullshit. The Mexican government collects taxes from the drug lords. They don’t want drugs to stop and they don’t want them to be legal. They make too much money. Too many people with their hands in the purse. So they put pressure on Interpol.” He took a bite of his muffin and then pushed it away. “I’ve never chased anyone overseas since that day. Until now.”

She was silent a moment. “I know what you’re going to say and it’s taken care of.”

“He killed four people and kidnapped a young woman. Two of them were just bystanders, people that had nothing to do with anything. Did you know that?”

“Not about the kidnapping, no.”

He nodded. “I know everything about Starlight and about your little projects. Don’t forget that our two countries began the project.”

“I haven’t forgotten and I haven’t forgotten your role in that either.” Vanessa was accusing him of something but didn’t know what. She had been involved with Starlight after its formation but Henri had helped form it as a liaison with the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence in France. By right, it was more his than hers.

“I know,” he said. “I am just as responsible for this abomination as you are. But you were not there when we founded it. It was meant as a counter-terrorism agency. One that would work outside of each nation’s laws and chase terrorists and war criminals down wherever they were. We were so patriotic then. We thought we had found the solution to the world’s problems, and instead we created a Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein? Excuse me? Do you have any idea how much evil has been taken out of the world by this one organization? We have, what, about fifty employees and we do more good than any agency in the world.”

“Hm, you would be surprised how your perspective will change with age. It is a monster, and we are all responsible. But we’re not paying for it. These poor bastards caught in the middle are.”

“I already told you, it’s taken care of.”

“I deal with people lying to me all day, Vanessa. I can smell bullshit.”

She folded her arms. “Well what do you want to hear?”

“Why did you release him?”

“I needed the best and he’s the best.”

“He was taken out of rotation for a reason. Do you know why he was in La Santé? Did you bother to ask?”

“Enlighten me.”

“He was in a bar fight. A simple bar fight. A man gently bumped into his arm. Witnesses told me he apologized. Before the apology was out of his mouth, Gustav was on top of him. He bit off his nose and his lips, pulling out one of his eyes before the patrons tackled him from behind. It took seven men to hold him down until police arrived. He is severely unstable, and you released him, gave him weapons and money…”

“And I told you it was taken care of.”

“How? By sending another psychopath after him? That is a fool’s plan.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Help me find him.”

“You?” she said with a chuckle. “You’re too old, Henri. And you were never that good at this.”

“I was his commanding officer at DIIF. I may still be able to speak to him. But I may not, I don’t know. You know it used to be that our biggest concerns were the communists. I miss the communists. They were one enemy that we could focus on and try to understand. And they weren’t that difficult to understand. But now…I don’t know. I had to arrest a twelve-year-old boy last year for murdering his parents. They grounded him and he stabbed them to death in their sleep. He made his younger siblings clean up the blood. That type of thing didn’t exist when I was younger.”

“Or maybe it did and you weren’t paying attention.”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

She exhaled. “I’ll help you find him.”

He nodded. “I think I know where he will go, but it might be too late for that girl by the time I get there.”

“Where’s he going?”

“There’s a place in Algeria. It holds a lot of memories for him. And for me. I don’t believe he will attempt to take this girl on the plane with him. He will kill her first.” He glanced around the coffee shop and then back to her. “Can the Messenger help us?”

She shook her head. “I’m not his favorite person right now.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “Do you know who he is, Henri? I’ve never asked you.”

“Yes, I know who he is. He was there at the beginning.”

“Why don’t you ask him for help yourself then?”

“I think you should come with me.”

“Why?”

“He and I…have a, what is it you Americans say? A checker’s past?”

“Checkered past. Yeah. Okay, let me go home and take a shower. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”

As she left, excitement tingled her belly: she was going to meet the Messenger. Out of her entire organization, only two people ever met him face-to-face. She wondered briefly if seeing who he was would be a good thing or a bad…

CHAPTER 48

Billie woke in the passenger seat as they were driving by a farm. She had grown up on a small farm out in Nebraska and being around barns and horses and seeing herds of cows gave her a type of comfort: the relief of home.

She hadn’t meant to sleep but exhaustion overtook her after about an hour and her body had shut down. When she woke they were heading in a different direction than when she had gone to sleep. She glanced at the man in the driver’s seat. He was staring forward, expensive sunglasses covering his eyes. He didn’t acknowledge her.

“I have to use the bathroom,” she said.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

He drove another ten minutes, passing two exits that had gas stations, until he found a rest stop. He pulled off and parked next to a semi and a mini-van, which had a family stretching and having snacks in front of it. He unbuckled his seatbelt and then walked around the car. He opened the door for her. She stepped outside and felt the breeze on her face as she stretched her back.

Gustav took her arm and led her up the sidewalk.

“I can walk,” she said.

He didn’t respond and continued up the sidewalk, into the women’s bathroom. He opened a stall door and pushed her inside before shutting the door and leaning against one of the sinks. She slid her pants down and sat.

“I can’t go with you in here,” she said.

She glanced under the stall and saw his shoes by the sink. He walked out of the bathroom, stopping at the door for a second, and then the door shut behind him and Billie exhaled like she had just come up for air in a pool.

She pulled up her pants and hurried to the windows that were up high over the sinks. She stood on the counter and reached up. She could just barely reach it if she stood on her tip-toes. Her foot slipped out from under her and she fell to the cold linoleum. Her shoulder and hip radiated with pain but she didn’t make any noise. She just watched the door. When the man didn’t come in, she climbed back up onto the sink.

Stretching her body upward again, she managed to reach the latch and open it. The window only opened about three inches and she frantically tried to push it further, mumbling, “Please, please,” to herself.

Suddenly the door opened behind her.

Billie turned to see a woman give her an odd glance. She jumped off the sink.

“Please,” she said, sobbing now, “please. Please help me. Please help me.”

The woman looked concerned and put her hand on her arm. “What’s the matter, dear? Do you need money?”

“No, no. The man I’m with…the man I’m with kidnapped me. He stole my car and kidnapped me. Please call the police. Please.”

The woman sat in shock a moment and then pulled out her cell phone and put her arm around Billie. She dialed nine-one-one and waited as it rang.

The door flew open and Gustav stood there. The woman was startled and nearly dropped the phone. Gustav walked toward her. Billie screamed and hid behind the woman, who began to say something and then yell for her husband. Gustav grabbed her by the chin and back of the skull and spun her head violently around. Filling the bathroom with a loud crack.

Billie screamed. He grabbed her and pinned her against the wall. He took out his pistol and put it to her cheek.

“No, no, please please please. Don’t kill me. Please.”

“Every person you try to have help you will die. You killed this woman. Do you understand?”

“Yes…yes,” she said, crying, “I understand.”

“Now stop crying and let’s go.”

He grabbed her arm again, leading her outside. As they stepped out, a man stood there with two others and some children.

“What the hell you doin’ in the women’s room?” one of the men said.

Billie didn’t even see her captor hesitate. He simply lifted his pistol and shot one of the other men through the eye. He pointed the pistol at the others standing there and they held up their hands in surrender. The children didn’t even realize what had happened. He lowered the weapon and continued pulling her to the car.

CHAPTER 49

Henri sat at the coffee shop for just under an hour before he saw Vanessa walk back in wearing a black dress and high heels. She looked stunning. Once, a long time ago, before Collette, they had had something. It was brief and passionate. A couple of weekends, if he remembered correctly. Weekends spent in a hotel room and on the beaches of Nice. She was an idealist then too.

At night when they would lie nude in bed, and the moonlight would be coming through the windows and the sound of the ocean filled the room, she would talk. She would talk for hours sometimes and Henri would just listen. She spoke of the American Republic and how it was the greatest nation that had ever existed. How every nation that had come before, from Babylon and Ur to the British Empire, was founded on the notion of one group’s superiority over another. Of collectivism. That the individual was always expendable for the needs of the state. Then she would explain why the Founding Fathers of the United States were the first ones to reject that notion. The individual was an end unto themselves in the United States and if America ever fell, freedom on the planet would fall along with it.

He also remembered that they were to meet in Paris and that she never showed up. She let him know days later that something had come up. But he always wondered if the life he had was meant to be shared with her. If his children were her children and she just let career get in the way.

“Ready to go?” she said.

“Yes. I feel suddenly underdressed.”

“You look fine. Let’s go.”

Henri rose and they began to walk out of the coffee shop. “You seem excited.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”

“I’ll drive.”

They got into Henri’s rented Nissan Z and he pulled away from the curb. He put an address into the GPS, which directed them to turn around and head to the interstate entrance.

“Could’ve picked a bigger car,” Vanessa said.

“All the cars in France are smaller than this. Large cars and trucks are uniquely American.”

“So who is he?”

“He was a general in the Army. One star I think before he went into intelligence. I’ve never thought of him as a decent man but he is very efficient.”

“What was the problem between you two?”

“It was over the direction of Starlight. One group, led by him, wanted to make it private. To sell our services to raise funds and continue our anti-terrorism activities. Funding was always a problem. The CIA and DIIF allotted us funds from their budget every year but it shrank every time and our expenses grew.”

The GPS dinged, indicating for him to get into the far right lane.

“So he and his group thought privatizing the organization’s resources was the solution,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“And you were against it?”

“Yes, for the reasons you see before you now. When money is involved, everything changes. Why do you think the CIA, FBI, DEA—why do these positions, extremely important positions—pay almost nothing at all? Because they don’t want anyone joining for money. It has to be patriotism. Otherwise you will not be able to suffer in the job like you must suffer.”

“Obviously he won.”

“Yes, he did. He convinced enough people. I don’t know how, but he convinced them. Probably with money. He was wealthy even then. That’s when I left.”

They drove another hour and spoke of mundane things: what television shows they watched, how the French viewed American politics…why the Founding Fathers had allied with France and why the two nations remained strong allies until the Bush administration and the debacle in Iraq.

Eventually they left the interstate and were driving through lush, green country. Cyprus trees and grasslands that stretched out past the horizon surrounded them and Vanessa watched them with a detached curiosity. Nature usually held little fascination. Its beauty was lost on her. She preferred sidewalks and skyscrapers. Surrounded by these was where she felt the most comfortable.

They drove into a neighborhood, if you could call it that, of massive houses with driveways that wound up hills. A gated community with limousines and luxury cars. There were a few places like this in France but they were mostly the chateaus of the large vineyards. Seeing such ostentation made Henri uncomfortable.

The GPS brought him to a gate that appeared to be made out of a shining brass. He got out to ring up to the house on the intercom but noticed the gate was unlocked. He pushed it open and got back into the car.

“That gate supposed to be unlocked?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve only been here once before.”

They drove up a driveway that seemed to go on for miles. It wound up a hill to a mansion, the size of which shocked Vanessa.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said.

He glanced to her and then back to the mansion. “I think he’s gay,” he said.

“I wasn’t—”

He grinned and she playfully punched his arm.

They parked on white gravel in front of the home and got out. The day was warmer than it had been the entire time Henri had been here and the air this far upstate was fresh and smelled like grass. Henri walked to the front entrance, Vanessa behind him. The front door was wide open.

“He expecting you?”

Henri pulled out a 9mm pistol from his waistband. “No.”

He pushed the door the rest of the way, ensuring that no one was standing behind it. He held the gun low with both hands as he surveyed the mansion. He stepped inside and listened. There were no sounds. He took a few more steps into the foyer. A massive dining room was off to the left and to the right a hallway leading to a spacious room with white leather furniture and a grand piano. He stepped gently into the room with the piano. A staircase wound up to the second and third floors, massive paintings hanging on the walls above him.

He walked around the furniture to the sliding glass doors that looked out over the property outside. It seemed to go on forever, an alien landscape of rolling hills and rich emerald trees. Henri stepped away from the doors and began up the stairs.

Looking back into the foyer, he saw Vanessa standing there with a pistol in her hand. It was a prejudice, he knew, but he wasn’t fully comfortable with her having a weapon. Women with guns was something he didn’t see very often. Or perhaps he wasn’t entirely certain she wouldn’t shoot him if she had a good reason.

Upstairs on the second floor, he turned to the left where several rooms ran down the length of the mansion on both sides of the hallway. Double doors, white with gold trim, stood on the right and he pushed them open.

He stood in awe, unable to comprehend what he saw.

CHAPTER 50

Santos Aras sat in a large conference room, while outside, Washington was gray and wet. It had stopped raining for only a few brief moments and now it started again and came down in sheets that pelted the window like insects smashing into a windshield.

The conference table held seven people from the State Department and three from Homeland Security. A man was standing at the front showing a PowerPoint, a technology that Santos thought was outdated by at least ten years.

He closed his eyes a moment, his mind drifting, and realized he was falling asleep. He shifted in his seat and reached for the coffee in front of him, taking a long drink. It was lukewarm and black without any sweetener.

The briefing seemed to go on and on, and Santos kept his eyes on the rain outside. He knew there were people out there that weren’t protected from it. People that had to take the full power of nature and find a way to keep going. He wondered how, in the middle of such abundance, people were actually starving. His own feeling was that they were simply too weak or too imprudent to take what they wanted. He had no patience for weakness.

“Any questions?” the man at the front said.

Santos perked up, hoping no one had any. One woman raised a finger in the air and said, “Does this apply to all department heads or just those dealing with security?”

The man dove into a longwinded answer and Santos zoned out again. He took out his phone, unable to hide his boredom, and began checking his email and Facebook updates. Finally the man stopped talking. He waited a few moments for any more questions before calling the meeting.

Santos yawned, finished the coffee, and then stood up. He walked outside quickly, hoping to avoid any chit-chat, and managed to sneak onto the elevator before anyone else. He pressed the button for the parking garage and then the door-close button as people tried to approach him.

Santos entered his Jeep and pulled out into the rain. The top was on but he could never secure it all the way and trickles of water ran down his roof and dripped over his seats. He pulled onto the freeway before getting off two exits down and coming to a stop in front of an average-looking brown office building. He parked at a meter and went inside, running to avoid as much rain as possible but still getting soaked.

“Hi,” he said to the receptionist, slicking his hair back and brushing droplets of water off his shoulders.

“Good morning, Mr. Aras. Mr. Phelps is in his office.”

“Thank you.”

Santos passed through metal detectors and was wanded before being prompted for his identification by security and being scanned up to the top floor. He stepped off and walked down the small hallway, over its dirty gray carpet, to the office at the end of the hall. Mitchell was sitting at his desk, speaking to someone on a Bluetooth. He told them he would call back and clicked it off.

“What can I do for you, Santos?”

Santos sat down without being invited to. Mitchell pressed a button on a little remote and his door closed.

“Vanessa’s failed. The target has killed three civilians that we know of and kidnapped another. If he’s ever captured and starts talking—”

“He won’t. He was captured in Paris and didn’t give ’em horseshit.”

“He’s unstable. We have no idea what he’s going to do.”

Mitchell exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “Well, what do you wanna do?”

“I think Vanessa’s employment and clearance should be terminated. She takes risks when they aren’t necessary.”

Mitchell didn’t say anything.

“What?” Santos asked.

“She knows a lot.”

“Of course she does. She’s the CEO.”

“She knows a lot, Santos. The board wouldn’t be happy with someone with that much knowledge running around.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“She knows everything.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Mitchell? You want to kill her? She signed non-disclosure agreements up the ass. She’s not saying anything.”

“You came from the military. I came from the Justice Department. I know the laws. You can’t enforce a contract when the subject is a crime. What we’ve done—we can’t enforce those non-disclosure agreements and she knows that.”

Santos shook his head. “I don’t care. We’re here to eliminate threats to our country. When you recruited me, that’s why I joined.”

“She is a threat.”

“Not in that way and don’t you dare play double-speak with me.”

“She could destroy all of us. You included.”

“I don’t care. We’re not doing it. End of story. I’ll let her know she’s fired today.”

“No, I’ll do it. I hired her, it should be me.”

Santos nodded and stood up. “If you want my employment to continue, you can never suggest anything like that again. Understood?”

“Loud and clear,” he said with a smile. “Sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He nodded and left the office.

Mitchell turned on his Bluetooth and dialed a number. Quietly, he said, “Vanessa Hailstorm, ASAP. Have it look like an accident.”

CHAPTER 51

Henri felt numb. He didn’t speak or move and wasn’t sure how long he had actually stood there until Vanessa called out his name.

“I’m upstairs,” he said. “You shouldn’t come up here.”

As soon as he said it, he regretted it. When he heard her steps ascending he knew he had been right: she was the type of woman that would do exactly what you told her not to just to show you that you didn’t control her.

“What’s going—”

She stopped midsentence and went silent. It was only a moment before she stepped out of the room and casually went down the hallway. Henri watched her. She stepped into a bathroom, and vomited. He listened to the water run a long while afterward, and when she came out she was dabbing her lips with a hand towel. She stood next to him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’ve never seen anything like this. It looks like he even removed the skin.”

“Is that him?”

“The Messenger? I don’t know. I can’t tell with what’s left.” He took out the handkerchief he kept in his jacket pocket and put it over his mouth and nose. He approached the body hanging on the wall. On the floor in front of it were clothes. He ruffled through them and found a cell phone. Clicking it on, he checked the number.

“This is him,” he said.

“What’s his name?”

“Clarence Fillmore.”

“Why does that sound familiar?”

“He’s a rich man. Donates much to politics.” Henri stood, not looking at the corpse, the massive stains, or the pile of tissue and bone on the carpet. He turned away and walked back into the hall.

“Why would he do this? I don’t understand. This man was paying him.”

“Gustav is…complicated. He doesn’t think about money or career or anything of that kind. He only cares about what amuses him. He probably thought it was funny to kill him. Ironic. Particularly so brutally.”

She shook her head, glancing back once into the room and then away. “I had no idea. I had no idea, Henri. If someone would’ve warned me—”

“You could’ve asked me. You knew I had a connection to him. But it doesn’t matter now.” He looked around. “I’m going to make sure he’s not here. You should wait in the car.”

He went down the hallway without awaiting a response and checked the various rooms. All of them were elegantly decorated and furnished, each completely untouched. As if no one lived here at all. One room appeared like a game room with the heads of animals up on the walls and in the adjacent room were weapons behind glass casings. Henri walked around the room and examined all the weapons. A World War I rifle caught his attention and he opened the case and held it.

He opened the room’s closet. Inside were more weapons. These appeared to be the heavy weapons Clarence didn’t want anyone to see. There were Kalashnikovs and armor-piercing bullets along with a shoulder-mount that fired rockets. Henri looked at the shoulder-mount. He had never seen anything like it. It looked like the stinger missiles the CIA provided to the Afghani freedom fighters during the war with the Soviet Union, but it was much more compact and could probably fit into a gym bag.

On the opposite wall of the enormous closet hung various bulletproof vests. Henri took one. It was so thin it could’ve been made out of cloth. But he felt the sturdiness of it in between his fingers. He took off his shirt, slipped it on underneath, and then put his shirt back on. He scanned the rest of the closet before returning to the room and going over the weapons in more detail.

Several pistols were up in a display and he went over them one by one. On the far left side, made completely out of glimmering titanium, was a Heizer DoubleTap handgun. He had seen the older models in museums but never an updated one. It had two barrels stacked on top of each other and carried two chambered rounds with two rounds in the clip. It was a .45 caliber and fired both rounds simultaneously. This particular one had a small laser scope, the size of a pen, mounted on the top.

Henri took it out and tested the laser scope. He examined both barrels by looking through them and seeing if they were straight. The gun was heavy and felt good in his hand. He went back into the closet, searching a shelf that contained boxes upon boxes of ammunition. He found .45 caliber and loaded the weapon, tucking it into his waistband. He snatched an extra box of ammo and left the room.

Vanessa stood at the railing, looking down at the piano and out the glass doors to the trees swaying in a breeze.

“We should go,” Henri said. “I’m going to call the local police so the maids don’t see him like this tomorrow.”

Vanessa continued to stare off in the distance when she said, “How do you stop someone like this?”

“By dying and taking him with you.”

Vanessa looked at him and he gently touched her arm as he began to walk toward the stairs. She followed behind him. Before leaving, he looked around the main floor one more time. On the marble floors just inside the home was a shoeprint. Henri bent down to look at it. It was bloodstained and the blood was on the outside edge of the shoe. Next to that was a faint outline: another shoeprint, much smaller.

She’s still alive, he thought. He rose and quickly went to the car.

“Where we going?” Vanessa said.

“The airport. That’s where he will be.”

CHAPTER 52

Mitchell Phelps finished his day with a final email to the director of security at the United Nations building and then turned his computer off. While the computer shut down, it flashed to his screensaver: his ex-wife and two children, which she had taken with her. She’d been gone almost six months and he never bothered to change the screensaver. He thought about leaving a Post-it note on his computer reminding him to do so, but didn’t.

He turned his chair around and looked out over the rain-soaked city. It was gray and wet and dark. He wondered if the weather affected everyone like it affected him. It ate at his soul and it was subtle. Oftentimes he wouldn’t even notice the change and then suddenly it would dawn on him that he was depressed. The anti-depressants helped, as did the liquor, but they were a temporary fix. Maybe he could move somewhere sunnier. Like California or Florida.

As he thought about it, he rose and walked to the liquor cabinet on the far wall. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey in a crystal tumbler with ice, and then walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked down at the cars as they passed by on the street.

“This city is different when it rains, no? More solemn. Quiet.”

Mitchell turned around to see a man standing in his doorway. A young woman was next to him and he was holding her arm. He led her to one of the chairs and forced her down.

“And who the hell are you?”

“You know who I am.”

Mitchell stood silently. He finished his whiskey and walked back to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself another. Returning to his desk, he sat down across from the girl. She had a blank expression on her face, like she wasn’t even there, and he turned his attention to the man.

“What are you doing here?” Mitchell said.

“You know what I am doing.”

“No, I don’t know what you’re doing. As far as I knew, you were in fucking Paris.”

“The Messenger is dead.”

Mitchell didn’t say anything. He sipped his drink and looked at the girl before looking back to Gustav.

“Why would you kill him?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“And you already know the answers to all these questions.”

Mitchell looked into his glass and shook it softly, making the ice ting against the edges. “He was a civilized man. A man that loved his country and fought his entire life to protect it. He didn’t deserve that.”

“Yes he did. We all do. It’s an illusion. All of it. We fight shadow wars and hide them from people because we think they are necessary. They are not necessary.”

“War is necessary. It always has been.”

“Vietnam was necessary? Korea? Iraq? War is a chance for the powerful to talk and the poor to die. Nothing else. If those that made the wars had to actually fight them, I don’t think we would have quite so many, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I? I’ve seen bodies piled up so high you couldn’t climb over them, widows crying over husbands they would never see again. Children watching with blank eyes. The bodies were nightmares on wax. They were the demons in our minds come to life. And not a single one of them wanted to be there. Not the victims or the murderers. They fought out of duty. Duty just means you don’t know why you’re doing something.”

He took down half his whiskey in a single gulp. “What do you want exactly? Is it money?”

“I just want an understanding. We are evil. We are the monsters that hide under children’s beds and we cloak ourselves in flags and tell ourselves that what we do is for the greater good. The greater good always means that an atrocity is being committed against someone.”

“It’s always been this way. You can’t change it. Neither can I.”

Mitchell placed the glass down with one hand as the other slipped under the desk to the revolver that was held in a plastic holster. Gustav didn’t move, his eyes never leaving his or looking down. Mitchell slowly began to pull the pistol out.

“I can make you a rich man,” Mitchell said. “Richer than a king. You could go off wherever you want and live the rest of your life as an emperor.”

He pulled out the pistol and pointed it over the girl’s head. She screamed and ducked as her hands came up. Gustav simply moved to the side as Mitchell fired three rounds, each one missing. He stood to get better aim and then fell back into his chair. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t rise when he glanced down and saw the stream of blood pouring out of him. A hole was over his heart and blood ran down with each contraction. It gushed over his desk. The blood coursed down his pants and his socks felt wet.

So much blood rained out of him so quickly he hardly felt any pain. He just sat there, unable to draw breath, and stared at the man, who came over and sat on the desk to look at Mitchell.

The girl sat up now, crying, her face in her hands. “Why do you make me watch?” she said desperately.

“I want you to see,” he said. “See how mortal we are. Everyone believes in immortality in a vague way, but if you watch enough death, you lose this. I am giving you a gift. One that customarily comes with a lifetime of horror. I give it to you now and you will carry it with you.”

“You don’t make sense,” she screamed. “What do you want from me!”

He laughed as he rose and took her arm, leading her out of the room. Mitchell could hear her crying in the hallway as they went to the elevator. He wondered how many people he had killed to get up here.

He strained to turn his computer back on to look at his screensaver one more time. As he reached down to the power button, he toppled over and found himself on his back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes began to dim. He could still hear the rain falling outside and he listened to it for as long as he could before the spirit slipped out of the flesh and left him.

CHAPTER 53

Henri drove as fast as he could to the airport. He left the car in short-term parking and opened Vanessa’s door. They ran inside the terminal. JFK was busy and the lines to everywhere were long. Henri ran to a TSA officer and showed him his badge, asking to speak to the supervisor right away.

He was led to a backroom where three men sat around eating food out of cartons. Henri pulled up a picture of Gustav on his phone and placed it on the desk.

“This man is a fugitive from the law. He is wanted for the murder of two people and the FBI is looking for him. He’s going to be passing through this airport. Please call the state police and they will verify. His name is Gustav Fabrice.”

A large man seated near him with a gray mustache and a prodigious belly looked at the phone as he chewed. “All right. We’ll check it out.”

Henri waited just outside the office and leaned against the wall with his arms folded. Vanessa couldn’t sit still and quietly paced as she returned calls and checked emails on her phone. Henri would notice as nearly every man that walked past stared at her. She was strikingly attractive but it was more than that. She carried an air that suggested she could take care of herself and of any man she chose. Henri had once read that every man was looking for their mother in a mate, someone to take care of them and make them feel better when they needed. Vanessa looked like she was capable of doing anything.

The portly man came out wiping his lips. In his hand he held a color photo of Gustav. One that was at least six years old and clearly used for a passport.

“We’ll put him out there,” he said. “He ain’t gettin’ on any a my planes.”

Henri offered a few more details and then left. He waited in the terminal and after a few minutes saw several New York State troopers arrive. They spoke to TSA and then took posts around the metal detectors, the only way to the planes. Henri took a deep breath and sat down. He pulled out a coin, which he absently spun between his knuckles. Vanessa sat down next him.

“We should get flights back to DC,” she said.

“You go. There’s no reason for you to be here.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“He’s a monster I helped create. I’ll stay until they have him in custody.”

“What makes you so sure he’s coming through here?”

“He never liked the United States. He couldn’t stay here for very long. He’ll leave.”

“He could just go to Paris or Belgium or disappear in Saudi Arabia and we’d never see him again.”

“I don’t think so. There is only one place I think he feels completely comfortable.”

“Algeria?”

“Yes. A dusty province outside Algiers.”

“You sound like you know the place.”

“I know it well. It’s where I first met him.” She looked at him like she wanted him to continue, but he didn’t say anything. “What about you? Is it back to work after all this?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think my bosses are very happy with me right now. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have this job.”

“What would you do if they let you go?”

“I honestly don’t know. This is all I’m good at.”

“You are a lot of things, but good at only one profession is not one of them. You could always go back to working for congressmen.”

She scoffed. “For forty thousand a year?”

“I didn’t know you cared about money.”

“Everyone cares about money when they don’t have any.”

“You could come to France. Americans are shocked when they come over and experience how good the living is.”

“If they can get work. But you guys hang on to those work permits like they’re your balls.”

He grinned. “Go home, Vanessa. I will call you when this is over.”

She nodded and leaned over. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” was all she said.

“You’re welcome.”

As he watched her walk away, he couldn’t help but think again of where his life would be if she had shown up that day in Paris. He loved his wife dearly and had no regrets, but it was interesting to contemplate. He pushed it out of his mind and turned his eyes back toward the front entrance. Crowds of people came in and out. Men with backpacks pulling small carrying cases with wheels. Women with luggage and purses filled with personal items. The airport was a strange place to people-watch. People were usually either very happy or very melancholy. There was no middle ground.

Henri rose and walked over to the metal detectors. Vanessa had bought a ticket and was going through the security line. She passed through and put her shoes back on as she thanked the TSA officers. Before she was out of sight, she looked back to him, and smiled.

CHAPTER 54

Santos Aras lay nude in the bed as the woman dressed. She was slim with muscles that rippled underneath her tight skin. She was in her early twenties and Santos knew that was the age where the muscles would appear that way. No matter how much older women worked out or went in for surgeries or starved themselves, they could never get that tightness. It was a purview of youth. Something that once lost, could never be regained.

She climbed on top of him and stuck her tongue in his mouth. It was warm and tasted like honey, and she licked his lips before kissing him and lying next to him.

“I wish you’d fuck me every day,” she said.

“I think your husband would have a problem with that.”

“Fuck him. He doesn’t care what I do.”

Santo cupped one of her breasts and kissed her hard before rising and pulling on his boxer shorts. He went into the bathroom and urinated.

“Aspen this weekend?” she yelled out from the bed.

“Sure. Let’s leave Friday, though.”

“I have to be back Sunday. I have deadlines on Monday morning at work.”

Santos stared at himself in the mirror. He looked much older than he expected and it surprised him. He pulled at his eyes and at the wrinkles that had just appeared this year. He felt the rim of fat around his belly and flexed his pecs. Done examining himself, he dipped toward the sink to wash his face then toweled off and returned to the bedroom to dress.

She came up behind him and helped him put on his tie and his jacket. He had never married and he wondered if this is what it would be like: to have someone always there willing to help you. But no one respected marriage here. It was a piece of paper that people forgot about over time. He was better off alone.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.”

He kissed her and she walked him out. At the door, she lit a cigarette and then kissed him, watching as he strode out and went to his car.

The rain had stopped but the ground was wet and he had to skip over puddles in the uneven parking lot of the hotel. He found his car and got in, turning on the stereo before his cell phone rang. He answered.

“Santos…yes…yes…when? I’ll be right down.”

He hung up and pulled out of the parking lot. The woman he had been with was leaving too. He watched as she continued to smoke through the lobby despite the NO SMOKING sign and then entered her Lexus. She blew him a kiss and disappeared around a corner to the other exit. Santos pulled away and turned onto the main street, speeding through a red light.

He rolled down his window. The rain had cleared away the smog for a moment and the air tasted salty and clean. He had grown up in a Mexican fishing village and that was what he missed most about it: the clean air. Completely poor and with never enough to eat, he was so focused on what he didn’t have that he hadn’t appreciated what he did. Only when he moved to the city and comprehended that there were places where human voices were never quiet, places where even in the deepest sleep you still heard the chatter of meaningless conversations, did he appreciate the solitude and soundlessness of his village.

He drove on the interstate for fifteen minutes before exiting and stopping in front of a building with police tape around the entrance. The DC police were here and the FBI wouldn’t be far behind. He got out and walked to the entrance, ducking under the police tape. The DC police acted as bodyguards for several members of the State Department when they were in town, and Santos recognized one of the officers. The officer waved him through.

“Do we have the shooter?” Santos asked.

“Afraid not, Mr. Aras. Got away clean. We got surveillance video, though. The detectives took that back to the station. They said it was one man and a girl but I ain’t never seen one man do this. He cut clean through security. There’s nine bodies in there and one security guard is missing.”

“I’d like to see the bodies. For identification.”

“Of course. One second.”

The officer went to speak to a few other people, and then came back. “You’re all clear.”

Santos walked inside, escorted by the officer, who walked a few paces behind him. He had just been here, in this same building, but something seemed different now. Whenever murders occurred in a building, it changed the atmosphere, the essence, of the place. Santos’ grandmother would say that the spirits haunted the space now, and that was what he was sensing. He just thought one couldn’t be in the place without thinking about death and that the change was internal.

A body covered in black plastic lay near the front desk. Over by the metal detectors were three others. Staff from the Medical Examiner’s Office were busy loading them onto gurneys and wheeling them down the hallway and out the entrance. The officer stepped over one of the bodies and pressed the up button on the elevator. They didn’t speak as the elevator came down. They stepped on and rose up to the top floor.

As soon as they stepped off the elevator, Santos could see three more bodies. They were off to the side in a room, all gathered by the door. One body wasn’t yet put in a bag and the forensics team was filming its location and snapping photographs. It was a man in his forties. He had been shot several times in the back. He was reaching for a window that was partially open. Santos could imagine the logic: he was certain to die here, but he might survive the jump.

Farther down the hall, there was one more body that was already on a gurney. He couldn’t see if it was male or female and he didn’t look at the tag that was on the zipper. A massive bloodstain sullied the wall and bits of bone, and what looked like organ or brain tissue, was sticking to the paint.

Turning into the last office, Santos caught the ME’s staff just as they were bagging the last body. He watched as the zipper came up over the face of Mitchell Phelps, a man he had known for twelve years. He stepped to the side as the gurney was wheeled out and down the hall.

“I’ll leave you here, sir,” the officer said, “in case you want a minute.”

“Thank you.”

The officer left and Santos walked over to the liquor cabinet. He noticed a glass on Mitchell’s desk, and he grabbed it, walking back to the cabinet and pouring some whiskey. He sat at the desk, his thumb and forefinger pressed to the bridge of his nose as he tried to prevent the migraine that was building up. He took a sip of the drink and then turned and looked out the window. He retrieved his cell phone and dialed a number.

“This is Vanessa.”

“Mitchell’s dead.”

Silence. “How?”

“I think we both know that,” he said, taking a swig. “I’m getting out of town for a while. I think you should do the same.”

He hung up as Vanessa was saying something and placed the phone on the desk. He put his feet up and finished his whiskey.

CHAPTER 55

Billie woke up in the passenger seat. At first, she had faked sleep and then eventually sleep was all she could do. She looked out the windows at the passing landscape. Less than seven hours ago it had been farmland and trees. Now it was damaged buildings and broken fire hydrants with kids on corners selling drugs.

It was a seven-and-a-half-hour drive down to Washington, DC, and they didn’t exchange a single word. She was terrified beyond any reason or comprehension, but still she needed to speak to someone. Maybe especially because she was terrified she needed that connection to another human being. The fact that he wouldn’t give that to her was another form of torture. Or maybe he wasn’t doing it purposely. She had caught him speaking to himself several times, and then he would take out his amber bottle and pop some pills. Maybe he didn’t know what he wanted. If that was true, there was still hope that she could talk him out of keeping her.

They stopped at a café to eat. He walked around the car and took her by the arm, leading her inside as they passed by the hostess and just sat down. The hostess gave them a dirty look and said, “Assholes,” loud enough for them to hear. Gustav reached for his weapon. Billie grabbed his hand.

“No, no it’s fine.”

He stared at her a moment and then pulled his hand away. He placed it on the table. The waitress came and Billie ordered for them. As much as it revolted her, she knew her life depended on how much of a connection she could form with him. She placed her hand on his.

“Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“This violent? That was just a little insult and not even a good one. You’d kill her for that?”

“Men have died for less.”

She was quiet a moment and then said, “I see you talking to yourself sometimes. And then you take those pills.”

“My father had it too. He would come home drunk in a rage over something that did not occur. He would scream until he did not have a voice and then he would punch at walls. When he would have his lucid moments he would tell me that he was possessed by Satan. That he could hear Satan’s voice inside his head and that he would tell him to do things. At that time they did not know what things like that were.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed in a bar fight. He offended someone larger than himself and was stabbed in the stomach. He stumbled home and began screaming and then died on the floor before we could get a doctor.”

“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“It made me stronger. You have nothing to be sorry about. Be sorry for those fools that have no pain in their lives. They are soft and weak. They fly in whatever direction the wind takes them because they have no direction.”

“You think pain makes us stronger?”

“Those of us that see pain as a gift.”

“My mother died of breast cancer when I was twelve. I would never see that as a gift.”

“And that’s why you live in illusion. There is an entire world that you know nothing about, that you sleepwalk through without a hint that it is there. Your life is inauthentic. If you want an authentic life, you must go through pain. Intense pain that would break other people. And you must want to go through that pain.”

The waitress brought their drinks and he took a cup of coffee with both hands and sipped it. He grimaced at the taste and placed it back down. He took out his bottle of pills and Billie could see there were only a handful left. He placed two in his mouth and washed them down with the coffee.

“I have never understood how Americans can tolerate the mediocre. In Europe, corporations and governments are frightened of the people because the people hold the power. Over here the people are frightened. But it does not matter I think. Man has an inclination toward tyranny and both systems will lead there through different paths.”

“What’s your name?” she asked softly.

He looked at her a long time. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you? You said you were from Corsica but is that really where you’re from? I mean, your English is better than mine but I can hear an accent.”

“I was born in Corsica. I remember the island from my youth. Napoleon the First was born there too, and the entire island was so proud of him. It is funny that dictators can be remembered so fondly if they are your dictators and not foreign ones.”

“What do your friends call you?”

“Gustav.”

“I like that name.”

He nodded, glancing around the café.

“Can I ask you something, Gustav?”

“What?”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

“I have not decided yet.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“I do not know.”

“Why did you bring me with you? I’m just slowing you down.”

He sipped his coffee and grimaced again as if he were drinking swill out of a pigpen. “I’ve given you a gift.”

“How is this a gift?”

“If you survive this, your entire life will change. Little things that you never noticed will bring you enormous pleasure, your meals will taste better, the conversations you have with friends and family will be that much sweeter because you will know that it is time you have been given that is not yours.”

The waitress put two plates down in front of them and asked if they needed anything else. They said no and she left them as Billie dug into the pancakes, bacon, and two eggs. She was halfway done when he said, “We need to go.”

“I’m not done.”

“We need to leave now,” he said, standing up and taking her arm. He pulled out a wad of cash with his other hand and left a hundred dollar bill on the table before walking out. Outside, he placed her in the car and got into the driver’s seat. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

“We have one more stop to make and we should go now.”

Disgust washed over her and nausea made her feel like she would vomit. “Please, I can’t watch anyone else die. Please don’t take me.”

“Oh but you will want to see this. I’m going to make this one special.”

CHAPTER 56

Henri sat in the chair just inside the terminal for three hours before he had to get up and use the bathroom. He walked over to a McDonald’s and ordered oatmeal with strawberries and an orange juice. A friendly TSA officer came up and began speaking to him about how one gets into Interpol and what credentials one would need to apply. Henri was polite and told him everything he wanted to know, but his eyes remained on the entrance and the metal detectors.

By now, the FBI was here. Several plainclothes agents were stationed inside and outside the terminal. Henri, who wouldn’t be involved in the takedown, really had no place here, but he wanted to be here and see for himself. He had to see the cuffs placed on Gustav and him hauled down and put in a cell. Otherwise, he wasn’t going to believe it.

As Henri walked down the terminal and returned to his seat, one allowing him an unobstructed view of the entrance, he saw a man in a white shirt and black suit walking toward him. The man sat next to him and didn’t say anything at first.

“You know,” Henri said, “J. Edgar Hoover is dead. You don’t have to use his dress code anymore.”

“We’ve met once before,” the man said. “You taught a seminar on facial sketching at Quantico.”

“That seems like a lifetime ago. Were you a cadet?”

“They’re called special agents in training and yes I was.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“There are eight terminals. What makes you so certain he’s coming into this one?”

“This is where the flights for Africa leave from.”

“Why is he going to Africa?”

“He has a kinship with that place. Heart of Darkness and such.”

“Never read it. What part of Africa?”

“Algeria.”

“They don’t have reciprocity with the United States. They won’t extradite him if he gets there.”

“Well then we’ll just have to make sure he never gets there, no?”

The man glanced to him and then away. “I was on the special task force that helped capture him the first time. Before he was extradited to France and that idiot judge granted him bail. I understand he was serving a life sentence on something else before you let him out?”

“I was not the one that let him out. That little gesture is courtesy of your Department of Homeland Security.”

“I wasn’t told about that.”

“What you haven’t been told can fill volumes, Special Agent. Now if you’ll excuse me I’d like to get back to watching the entrance.”

The man watched him a moment before rising and walking off, melting back into the crowd though Henri knew Gustav would spot him in less than a minute. Then again, he was acting erratic and making completely irrational decisions. Killing when he didn’t need to, kidnapping someone for no apparent purpose. Maybe he would just walk in here and try to engage in a shootout. Henri had considered the possibility and brought it up with TSA but they weren’t willing to close the airport on his word.

His cell phone rang and he saw it was Vanessa. He let it ring a couple of times and then answered.

“Are you back yet?”

“Yeah, I just walked into my apartment. Guess what? Mitchell was killed.”

“Phelps? How?”

“How do you think? Santos called me and said I should leave town for a while.”

“Where was he killed?”

“In his office.”

“In DC?”

“Yes.”

Henri jumped up. “Get out of your apartment now, Vanessa.”

The line went dead.

CHAPTER 57

When Vanessa went through the metal detectors she couldn’t help but glance back once to Henri, who was watching her. She smiled at him before heading out to her gate. It was completely unfair that men seemed to grow more handsome as they aged. But then again they were cursed with sexual obsession that ran their lives in a way that a woman could never experience or understand.

She recalled a study that had occurred at her university where an extremely attractive twenty-five-year-old female went up to strangers, men, and told them she was attracted to them and asked if they would like to go to her apartment and have sex. Over seventy percent of the men agreed. When the same study had been done with a male, a Brad Pitt look-alike, exactly zero women had agreed. Not a single one. It seemed that the priority of the sexes was completely off balance and she was surprised they were able to even live in the same society much less in the same homes.

As she waited at her gate for her flight, she kept looking back. A small part of her thought that Henri might come to her. What they would say to each other or do after that she wasn’t sure, but she thought that perhaps he still felt the way she did. She had chosen work over him once and she regretted it now. The career turned to nothing and Henri was still the same man she had loved so long ago. Or at least thought she loved. It was brief as they’d only known each other a month before their weekends spent together, but it was the closest she had felt to a man.

As her flight was called, she kept looking behind her, but he never came. She boarded and sat in her seat, leaning her head back to try to sleep. The flight was an hour and ten minutes and she wanted to sleep the entire time. But a large man with a briefcase that he wouldn’t let go of sat next to her and immediately struck up a conversation.

“Where you headed?”

“Same place you are,” she said, her eyes still closed.

“I meant your final destination. Mine’s Miami.” She didn’t respond and he continued. “Yup, gotta get to Miami quick. Got a big real estate deal about to go down. I buy houses in the ghettos and then fix ’em up and flip ’em. Good living in that. It’s actually better after the crash. It’s one of ’em businesses that gets better when the economy gets worse. I buy houses now for fifteen grand that woulda cost me fifty just two years ago.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d just like to sleep if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

Within five minutes, the man had struck up a conversation with another man seated on the opposite side of her. She exhaled, realizing sleep would be impossible, and rose, heading to the bathroom. In the little mirror they had up, she checked her hair and make-up, something she almost never did, to kill time. One of the stewardesses stood near the bathroom and she smiled.

“You look tired, hon,” she said.

“Rough day at the office.”

“Yeah, try bein’ groped and yelled at by these drunk assholes.” She took out a package of gum and put a stick in her mouth. She offered one to Vanessa, who took it and leaned against the bathroom door.

“Don’t suppose you could get me another seat, could you?”

“It’s a full flight. Sorry.”

“I know. I tried to get first-class but there was nothing left. Not a big deal in the scheme of things.”

She went and squeezed between the two men as they discussed what cities have the best bars to get drunk in. They were both in sales and both tried to speak to her several times. She began reading a book on her cell phone and tried to ignore them as much as possible.

By the time the flight ended, she realized they had done one thing for her: they had made her completely forget what was going on in her own life. Now it hit her that Mitchell was dead, the Messenger was dead, and Santos had left town—if what he’d told her on the phone was true. You never really knew in this town. Everyone had their own agendas and fought tooth and nail to achieve what they wanted.

She hailed a cab out on the curb and gave her address. The cabbie would stare at her in the rearview mirror and ask her about the relationships she was in. Though men had hit on her since she was eleven years old, it never ceased to amaze her that that was the only thing they saw. Despite all her attributes and memories and skills and experiences and perspectives on life and the universe, and the million other subjects she was interested in, all they saw was a pair of tits.

When the cab stopped, she still tipped him well before stepping out into the night. The air was cold but the sky was clear and the crescent moon above was bright. She looked at the Big Dipper a moment before going into her home. As she opened her door and stepped inside, she remembered that Henri was still at the airport and probably hadn’t heard about Mitchell.

Walking into the kitchen, she took out her cell phone and dialed his number.

“Are you back yet?” he said as a greeting.

“Yeah, I just walked into my apartment. Guess what? Mitchell was killed.”

“Phelps? How?”

“How do you think? Santos called me and said I should leave town for a while.”

“Where was he killed?”

“In his office.”

“In DC?”

“Yes.”

“Get out of your apartment now, Vanessa.”

She was about to respond when she saw something out of the corner of her eye, behind the island in the kitchen. They were feet. She walked back there and saw the body of a man lying on her kitchen floor. Blood was pooling around his head. She hung up the phone without saying anything and laid it down on the counter.

Vanessa bent down over the man. He was young, his eyes were open, and he was holding a handgun. She reached for her phone when she heard a noise behind her and turned. Gustav sat at her dining room table in the dark. A young woman was in the seat next to him, staring down at the placemat in front of her.

“He beat me here,” he said.

“What are you doing here?”

“I think it is more interesting to ask what he was doing here, no?”

“I want you to get out of my apartment, Gustav. Our business is through.”

He made a sucking sound through his teeth. “I do not believe it is.”

“Why’d you kill Mitchell? He never did anything to you.”

“He hired me.”

“So what?”

“So I am doing housecleaning.”

She folded her arms. “The expression is cleaning house.”

He shrugged and stood up. The young girl at the table looked over as he pulled the pistol out of his waistband and held it low.

“You kill for a living and yet you look at me as if I am evil.”

“I kill when necessary in the interests of my country,” Vanessa said.

“Is that what they told you? That this is for your country? That is what they tell poor fools that die in deserts and jungles because a politician wants them to. That is what you do: you serve the whim of the powerful and help them be remembered. It is pointless. You are pointless. But do not feel bad. So am I.”

He began lifting the weapon. The girl at the table screamed, “No!” and jumped at him. She pushed the gun down and wrapped her arms around him.

“Run!”

Vanessa didn’t wait. She sprinted for the front door and shut it behind her just as she heard the spit of the silenced pistol. Darting for her elevator, she hit the down button and waited. She looked back to her door and heard a scream. The door flung open and Gustav stormed out.

Vanessa ran for the door leading to the stairs. She shut it behind her and turned the lock. Through the viewing window she could see Gustav begin to run toward her. She threw off her high heels and descended the stairs two at a time. The stairs were cold to the touch, and she could hear Gustav trying to break through the door behind her.

Her apartment was four flights up. She rounded the third floor and kept going. She got down to the second floor and then took that door and ran down the hall. He would be waiting on the first floor.

She sprinted past a couple in the hallway coming out of their apartment. Heading down the hall to the emergency exit, she stopped and looked for Gustav behind her before continuing through the exit outside.

Running down a flight of stairs, she ended up at the back of the building. A grocery store neighbored her building and she ran for the fence. As she climbed up and pulled herself over, she felt a burning in her calve like a hot knife had entered her and she screamed as she toppled over on the other side. She lay on her back, staring up at the night sky for a moment before she pulled herself to her feet.

A black figure, hidden by the shadows, was stalking around the apartment building to where she was. She used the fence to straighten up and then started limping toward the grocery store. Using cars in the parking lot for balance, she hobbled inside.

One of the employees was straightening up the shopping carts and saw her. His eyes went wide as he saw the trail of blood behind her.

“Do you have police here?” she said.

He nodded without saying anything and pointed to a police officer that was leaning over a counter and speaking with one of the cashiers. Vanessa walked over to him.

“My name is Vanessa Hailstorm and I—”

Part of the officer’s head exploded in a waterfall of blood and brains. His corpse toppled onto the counter as the cashier screamed. A round entered her open mouth and blew out the back of her head, sending the body flying back into the next cashier’s aisle.

Vanessa hurried up one of the aisles as best she could, but she couldn’t go much faster than a hobble. She turned and saw that no one was following her. Blood filled her right stocking and she left a red footprint as she walked. She got to the end of the aisle and turned right. A muzzle pressed against her chest.

He didn’t say anything as he pulled the trigger. She didn’t hear the round that entered her heart but she did smell the gunpowder. She was suddenly on her back but didn’t remember getting there. Her head felt light and a surge of euphoria made her smile before she closed her eyes.

CHAPTER 58

Henri used his badge and the FBI contact to get on the next flight to DC. He warned the agent at the DC airport about Gustav and the agent informed him that he would get a couple of people down there.

The flight was packed and Henri sat in the back of the plane, his leg bouncing up and down so much the person next to him glanced over. Waiting for the flight to take off was the most anxiety he had felt in a long time. In a way, he missed it. The chase. These days, his job was mostly paperwork and supervision of new detectives, and getting into the field was a pleasure he had forgotten all about. Pleasure may not have been the right word. Exhilaration maybe.

The flight was agonizingly slow though it was just over an hour. They landed ahead of schedule. As soon as he was in the terminal, he called his assistant. Though it was five in the morning in Paris, they had an understanding that he was to leave his cell phone on at all times.

“Allo?”

“J'ai besoin de vous pour trouver une adresse pour moi, à Washington DC,” Henri said, jogging to the rental car booths.

“Pour qui?”

“Vanessa Hailstorm, Homeland Security.”

“Un moment…vous prêt?”

“Oui.”

“Five sixteen Barker Lane apartment 4E.”

“Five sixteen Barker Lane apartment 4E.”

“Oui.”

“Merci. Maintenant dormir un peu.”

Henri hung up and attempted to rent a car. The salesman kept trying to sell him upgrades like insurance or a larger car and he grew frustrated and pulled out his badge, saying he needed the car immediately. The clerk told him to wait a moment and returned with the manager.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the manager said, “but we can’t rent a car to you.”

“Why not?”

“We’ve had…issues with law enforcement damaging our vehicles. If you like, I can call a cab for you.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s company policy. If you’d like to speak to our district manager, I’m sure I could get—”

Henri sprinted away and out of the terminal. He saw a car with a single male inside and he ran up to the door and pulled the man out.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He slammed the door shut and locked it as the man started banging on the window. He sped off out of the airport and onto the interstate. There was no GPS in the car so he had to pull up the app on his phone. His eyes darting between his phone and the road, he punched in Vanessa’s address. It was twenty-one minutes away. He decided he would get there in ten.

Henri rolled down the window and the night air whipped through the car. He had tried calling Vanessa half a dozen times, but after ringing, it always went to voicemail. He called the police and asked if they could check on her apartment. He was on hold with dispatch when a woman’s voice came on.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” he said.

“The address you gave us, I do have a unit already in that area. Right next door actually, so they’ll get over there in a minute and check on her.”

“I appreciate that. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Ah, excuse me, one more thing, when you said next door, do you mean the next apartment?”

“No, sir. There’s an emergency at the grocery store next to the complex.”

“Okay,” Henri said, his stomach dropping, “thank you.”

Watching his speedometer, he saw that he hit over eighty miles an hour on a somewhat crowded interstate. Several times he had to weave in between cars or go up on the shoulder, but he arrived at his exit quickly and then sped down the street and through two red lights before coming to Vanessa’s apartment complex. He said a quick prayer, thanking the Lord for not letting him get pulled over in a stolen car, and then jogged up the entrance.

The building’s front door was locked with a keycode and he had to wait what seemed like a long time for a tenant to pass through and open it. They tried to close the door behind them, so he pulled out his badge and walked past them and to the elevator.

The fourth floor was quiet and smelled faintly of dust. The rustic building reminded him of someplace his grandmother might live. It wasn’t the young, hip place he had imagined for Vanessa. He came to 4E and stopped, putting his ear to the door. He listened for a while but couldn’t hear anything. The doorknob turned all the way when he tried it, and he opened the door and went inside.

Henri took out his weapon and was suddenly appreciative of the fact that law enforcement in the United States could carry firearms on planes. In France, it was not the case. He shut the door behind him and stood in the dark, unsure what exactly he was waiting for. He walked around to the hallway, hoping to hear the shower running and see Vanessa’s cell phone on the kitchen counter. There was nothing but silence.

He checked the bathroom and then the bedroom. An office was off to the side and he went in and switched on the lamp on an old oak desk. The office was small and immaculate, bookshelves taking up all the walls. Henri browsed through them. They were mostly books on geography, geopolitics, economics, and anthropology. He went to the computer and turned it on. It was passcode locked, so he turned it back off and turned the lamp off before walking out of the room.

Entering the bathroom again, he washed his hands, something he hadn’t done in a day. He looked at himself in the mirror and then walked out. He headed for the kitchen. The fridge held a few beers, and he took out a bottle and popped the top, taking a long drink. He tried Vanessa’s cell phone again but it just went to voicemail.

As he was about to leave, he saw a pair of shoes sticking out from behind the island in the kitchen. He walked to them and stared at the body that lay on the floor. The blood had congealed into a thick gelatin and Henri turned away and walked out of the apartment.

He knew Vanessa was dead.

CHAPTER 59

At the grocery store next to her apartment, Henri confirmed that Vanessa Hailstorm had been killed. He sat in his car a long time and couldn’t bring himself to start it. When he finally did, he saw that he was running low on gas.

Henri tried to rush to the airport but his movements were slow and he found it difficult to pay attention to the road enough to navigate traffic. He reminded himself that a young girl’s life was at stake and that helped focus him enough to get there relatively quickly from Vanessa’s apartment.

He went inside and looked for the FBI agents he had been promised: none were there. He sat in a seat and exhaled loudly as his knees cracked. Something that had just started occurring this year.

Henri felt exhausted: mentally and physically. He felt like he didn’t have the energy or the desire to chase Gustav any longer. He just wanted to go home and take a bath and be with his family.

An image of a young woman flashed in his mind, dead in a rental car with a bullet in her brain. He forced himself to get up and find the TSA office.

Henri stood outside the terminal, sipping coffee out of a paper cup. Two federal agents were inside and TSA had a photograph of Gustav. Henri decided he would be out here when everything happened. He wouldn’t be inside, and he wouldn’t let Gustav see him. He had wanted to be there and tell him he was under arrest, thinking that it would somehow bring him satisfaction. But it wouldn’t matter. Not in the long run. There were thousands of Gustavs and stopping one made little difference.

Gustav would see him out here, though. Henri thought it best if he sat in some quiet corner inside one of the terminals, and he entered the airport and sat near a kiosk. He leaned back in the seat and rubbed his eyes. Sleep was just on the horizon, pushing itself forward. If he lay down, he knew it would overtake him. He rose and bought another cup of coffee then leaned against the wall behind the seats instead of sitting.

The buzz of the airport would come in waves. Crowds from recently landed planes would swamp the terminal and an excited energy would flood the space, affecting everyone inside. But then as quickly as they had come, the crowds would dissipate, and then there would be nothing but the quiet hum of pilots and stewardesses talking softly as they went to their gates.

Seconds turned to minutes, which turned to hours. Henri would walk around the terminal to stay awake, but after an hour or so, that would be ineffective. He drank enough coffee that his hands were trembling and he had to use the toilet. He ate a meal of roast beef and salad and took another walk before lying down across several seats. He would close his eyes and drift off to sleep before his eyes would dart open again. It wasn’t until daylight broke through the windows and pierced his closed eyelids that he understood Gustav wasn’t coming.

He sat up and spoke to the federal agents. They assured him they would keep an eye out and that TSA would keep the photo. Henri thanked them, and then strode to the counter and purchased a ticket to Charles De Gaulle International in Paris. His flight would be leaving in three hours, so he decided to return his rental car and then take a walk outside the terminal to get air. A man was smoking on the corner and Henri stopped next to him.

“May I have a cigarette?”

The man nodded and pulled one out. As Henri put it to his lips the man lit it for him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, brother.”

“I keep attempting to quit but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

“It’ll do that to ya. You French?”

“Yes.”

“I always liked the accent. I used to wish I had it ’cause I thought it would get me more pussy. Chicks dig that accent.”

Henri shrugged. “In France they like German accents. Whatever is unfamiliar I suppose.”

The man puffed on the cigarette. “Still want a French one.”

“You could fake it.”

“Nah, I ain’t gonna be someone ain’t me. What part a France you from?”

“I was born near Bordeaux in a town called Lormont.”

“Yeah? What was that like?”

“It was good. I miss it.”

“Why don’t you go back?”

“It’s not the same. That type of town doesn’t exit anymore. It had one baker, one doctor, one mechanic…you don’t have that anymore. It’s all just corporations now. Faceless.”

“I hear that. I’m from Montana and had nothing in the town I grew up in. Then they built a Wal-Mart and now they got nothin’ but fast food and billboards.” The man took another puff. “That’s a damn shame to treat a woman like that.”

Henri followed his eyes to a car pulling into the parking terrace across the lot from them. A young woman was in the passenger seat and it looked like she was struggling with the driver, a male. The woman tried to open the door and the male grabbed her by her hair. As the man hauled the woman back inside, Henri got a good view of him.

It was Gustav.

CHAPTER 60

Billie put her arms around him as the woman ran. Gustav pushed her off and pinned her against the kitchen counter. Billie screamed as the pistol grazed her breast. Gustav’s face contorted in anger but he pulled the pistol away and instead slapped her hard against the face, sending her to her back on the kitchen floor.

“Wait here,” he said. “If you run, I can find you.”

Billie lay on the floor, crying into her hands. She heard the door shut but she couldn’t move. She felt that it would be easier if she were dead, the motivation to keep going fading inside her.

After a while, she pulled herself up and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. She went into the living room and stared at the door.

“Fuck him.” She sprinted for the door. Running down the hall, her footfalls heavy against the floors, she made it to the elevators and pressed the button. She pressed it impatiently until it arrived. She hopped on and went to the first floor.

Glancing around only briefly, she ran outside and into the night. A sense of relief washed over her. People were walking on the sidewalks and cars were driving by. But she knew the relief was illusory: this…thing would kill her in front of a hundred people as easily as he would if they were alone.

She ran to the first couple she saw and screamed, “Please, please, I’ve been kidnapped.”

“Whoa, calm down.”

“No, no, you have to get me outta here,” she said, frantically. “We have to go right now. He’s coming back.”

The female pulled out her cell phone and dialed nine-one-one.

“No,” Billie screamed, “that won’t help. We have to go please, we have to go.”

“Hey, I said calm down. It’s okay. The cops’ll be here in a minute. No one’s going to hurt you with twenty people around.”

“We have to go,” she said, pulling on the male’s arm.

“Let go of him.”

“You fucking asshole,” Billie screamed as she ran from them and into the intersection. The light was green but she stepped out into the intersection anyway, holding out her hands. A Buick slammed on its brakes and blared its horn. Billie ran around to the driver’s side. An old man in a suit rolled up his window. Billie tried to open the door but it was locked. She screamed and pounded on the door but the man only stared wide-eyed at her. He pulled away with her still pounding on the windows.

She tried to stop the car after him. A middle-aged woman with kids was driving. She kept going, not even looking at her. A woman in the third car stopped and rolled down the window.

“You all right?”

“I’ve been kidnapped,” she said, crying. “Please get me outta here.”

“Oh my gosh. Get in.”

The woman opened the passenger side door and as Billie got in, she took out her cell phone and dialed nine-one-one. Billie sat in the passenger seat curled up as the car began to move again. Then it stopped. She looked around, wondering why they weren’t going anymore. She turned to the woman to tell her to hurry up when she saw Gustav standing at the open window. The woman was staring at the roof, the handle of a knife sticking out of her throat.

Billie screamed and opened the passenger door. She got out as a car was passing and it swerved away from her, crashing into another car in the far lane. All the vehicles behind them hit their brakes, and Billie ran between the lanes screaming.

She glanced back once and saw Gustav take out his pistol and place the barrel against the forearm of his left arm to keep it still. He was taking aim. She dove underneath a car just as the first bullet shattered the windshield she had been standing next to just a moment ago. She got to her hands and knees and crawled on the pavement. No one got out of their cars. She would reach up to a door handle and it would be locked, the driver avoiding her gaze.

She was hysterical now, unable to control her screaming. She crawled until her knees were cut and bloody and her hands had small pebbles embedded in them. But she didn’t look back. She went as fast as she could and then turned a corner before standing up and running.

Not two seconds into her run, she felt a burning sting in her upper thigh and her left leg ceased to respond. She collapsed and hit the ground hard, chipping her front teeth on the pavement. She tried to crawl again but agony thundered through her leg and up into her hip. She shrieked and rolled to her side.

Gustav stood over her. A man on the sidewalk ran up and said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Before he was even close enough to see exactly what was going on, he had a round through his throat and he fell to the curb as everyone else panicked and ran. Gustav looked down at her, mumbling to himself.

“That woman,” he said, “that woman is dead. You killed her, you killed her.”

Billie screamed, her eyes closed. “I didn’t fucking kill her! You did, you motherfucker.”

Gustav picked her up and stepped into the road. A car swerved to miss them and was just barely able to come to a stop. Gustav shot the driver through the window and dragged out the corpse. He shoved Billie into the passenger seat and began to drive.

He locked the doors as Billie simply sat and cried. She screamed, “Just fucking kill me!” and it made him laugh.

They drove on the freeway, and several times Billie tried to open the door, but he would grab her or slap her. She tried getting into the backseat to open those doors but he pulled her back and hit her across the face.

Out of energy, Billie felt even the terror had been replaced with exhaustion. She collapsed against the seat and couldn’t move, numb except for the throbbing pain in her leg. She was bleeding out, and only the dim recognition that she would die dawned on her.

“Why?” she said. “Why me? Why?”

“You have a purpose, and everything you have done in life has led you here. It was inevitable. All your actions, all your decisions, were all meant to bring you here.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“That doesn’t change that you are here with me.”

“Just kill me, please just kill me.”

“Not yet.”

Sirens zipped past them on the opposite side of the freeway. Billie could hear a helicopter somewhere in the sky.

“They’re going to find you,” she said.

“No, I do not think they will,” he said, pulling off the freeway and into a residential area.

They drove for a long time, and he had his hand on her arm, ensuring that she didn’t move. Several times he pulled out a cell phone and checked directions but eventually she could see airplanes landing and taking off and knew they were headed for the airport.

As they pulled in and went up to the parking terrace, she knew he would kill her here. He wouldn’t risk being on a plane with her. He would shoot her and leave her in the car.

As they passed a checkpoint, she threw herself against him and slapped her hand against his door several times before hitting the unlock button. She turned and grabbed the door handle to the passenger door. It opened. She was nearly out when he grabbed her hair and pulled her back inside.

CHAPTER 61

Henri threw the cigarette down and sprinted for the parking terrace. He pulled out his weapon and ran until his legs felt like they were full of battery acid. As he ran up the ramp, he saw that the attendant in the booth noticed the gun and immediately picked up the phone and called someone.

Henri didn’t stop running until he got to the first level of parking. He looked for any moving vehicles but didn’t see the one that had just driven up. He jogged through the lot, looking down all the rows. He didn’t see them. He began climbing the ramp to the second level.

A car was coming down and nearly clipped him. They honked. He kept going, not even glancing back as the man rolled down the window and swore at him. Henri got to the top of the ramp and to the second level. He scanned the rows, his breathing loud, his heart hammering.

He slowly examined the rows up and down. A family, a couple—young—a single man…he didn’t see what he was looking for. There were two more levels of parking and he ran up the ramp to the third and then to the fourth. He leaned against the entrance to the terminal on the fourth level, panting, and slowly looked at every car. At the far end of the lot, parked in a dark corner, was the car he had seen. The man and woman were still inside.

He sprinted with everything he had left. As he got closer he could see that the driver held something: it was a firearm. The driver’s side window was open and Henri leapt through it.

He jumped on Gustav and grabbed his wrist with both hands. His own weapon dropped into the passenger seat.

“Run!” he shouted.

The girl climbed over both of them, screaming, and squeezed headfirst out of the driver’s side window. Gustav saw her leave and roared like an animal. He grabbed Henri with his free hand and pulled him farther into the car. The engine was running and he put it in reverse and backed up until he hit the wall.

Gustav put it in drive and began down the ramp. The car would scrape against one side of the barrier and then drift to the other. Henri was still pushing Gustav’s weapon against the seat. He flung his elbow back and it impacted against Gustav’s cheek. The weapon came up and fired, nearly shooting him in the face. Henri had to hold on with both hands again to keep the gun down.

The car was picking up speed as it raced down the ramp. Gustav hit another car, which was driving up, and the impact flung Henri against the dashboard, but he didn’t let go. They pulled out of the ramp and onto the road leading to the interstate. Henri could feel Gustav press the gas pedal all the way down.

“I’m ready to die, are you, Henri?”

“Stop the car.”

“No.”

“You’ll kill us both.”

“You have an illusion of control but in reality you have no control over your life. That is why people are so miserable, no? They believe they have control and keep trying to change things, but if things do not want to be changed, there is nothing you can do.”

“Gustav, stop the car!”

“Let go of that feeling of control, Henri. There is nothing more freeing in the world.”

Henri glanced out the windshield. They were on the opposite side of the road and cars were speeding toward them.

“I understand, Gustav,” he said pleadingly. “I really do. Now please stop this car.”

Gustav let go of the steering wheel and the car began to drift one way and then the other. “No. Let us answer the great mystery together.”

Henri heard honking and the screeching of tires. He let go of the gun and grabbed the steering wheel. He twisted to the right as far as he could as the gun came up and fired three shots, all tearing into his flesh.

The car spun and then was thrown to its side. It was upside down on the pavement and scraping from the momentum as a shower of sparks flew around them.

It came to a stop in the middle of the lanes. Henri felt the warm flow of blood as it came over his eyes and mouth. He couldn’t move but he could see Gustav as he attempted to crawl out through the broken glass of what used to be the windshield. His leg looked broken, a piece of bone sticking out through the shin. The gun was nowhere he could see.

Henri heard sirens. He reached for Gustav and got ahold of his shirt. Gustav slapped his hand away, and crawled out. Henri watched his footsteps as they ran off, and disappeared.

CHAPTER 62

Dave Cullimore stepped out of his car onto the residential street and glanced around. Sunlight pierced through the dark gray clouds that had been over the city for the past week. The rain had let up and left the pleasant smell of wet pavement and grass.

He had parked two blocks from where he needed to be, so he stepped onto the sidewalk and began to walk. Children were out in yards and a group of teenagers were playing street hockey in the road. He stopped and watched as a boy stole the puck by pushing his teammate out of the way before walking on.

The house appeared like any other. He stood in front of it for a moment before walking through the yard and up the porch. He had a temporary card, which had been left on his desk, and he took it and tried to figure out how to scan it on the little box. He remembered he’d also been given a small key and he took it out and opened the box. He figured out the scanner and the door clicked. He turned the knob and it opened and he went inside.

He was surprised to find photos of a family up on the walls. He wondered if the family knew their pictures hung in this house or if they were actors that had been hired specifically for this. A couple of dishes were in the sink but they were clean and no food clung to them.

“You’re late.”

Dave turned to see a woman in a business suit rise from the couch. A holster underneath her jacket revealed a black handgun.

“Sorry,” he said. “I took the long way.”

She walked past him into the kitchen. “Follow me. He’s upstairs.”

Dave followed behind her to a massive wooden door. As she opened it, he knew it was actually metal from the way it scraped against the linoleum. She held it open for him and he started up the stairs as she shut the door behind her and followed. At the top, he waited for her then she brushed past him and led him to an office down a hallway.

Santos Aras sat at a large desk going through some papers. He didn’t look up when Dave entered, and the woman shut the door behind him. Dave stood silently as Santos finished reading a document.

“Sit down,” Santos finally said. Dave took a seat across from him. “I don’t appreciate tardiness. It’s unprofessional for someone that’s been with the agency for so long.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” Santos leaned back. “You have a good career with the agency. You’ve been promoted twice in the past five years, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Three promotions actually. Sir.”

“That’s impressive. You got a retirement waiting for you after twenty years of service; you got people under you. Why do you want to come work for me?”

“I believe Starlight to be the forefront of national defense, sir. When I was approached by your recruiter, I jumped at the chance. I’d actually been waiting for it.”

Santos nodded. “What do you think it is we do here exactly?”

“I think we defend the nation from internal and external threats. We move without bureaucracy and without adherence to international conventions.”

Santos took a deep breath. “You’re an idealist. I have no use for an idealist. Get out of my office.”

Dave’s stomach dropped. “Sir? I don’t understand.”

“Why do you think we invaded Iraq after September 11?”

“Um, we thought they had WMDs and that Saddam was a threat to our allies and connected to various terrorist networks.”

“Looking back on it now, Mr. Cullimore, was any of that true? Answer me honestly.”

“No, sir. None of it was.”

“We invaded Iraq because there are companies that make enormous profits off war and because we wanted a cheap new source of oil before China got it. Presidents don’t decide when to go to war, their advisors do. They slowly steer the president in the direction they want him to go. Only the more naïve ones think they’re actually making the decisions on their own. Advisors and lobbyists are who determine what this nation does, and both can be bought and traded as easily as cattle. Those reasons you just listed were an illusion that we weaved. We’re magicians; that’s what we do. We build grand illusions and the entire world is the stage we perform on. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The fact that we went to war, that thousands of brave soldiers died and thousands more are missing limbs or have brain damage, the fact that hundreds of thousands of civilians including women and children are dead, and that we did it all for money, is a hard damn fact to accept. If you try to sugarcoat those facts, to justify them or treat them like it was the only possible way, then you have no place here. We deal with truth so that those people out there eating their TV dinners, and numbing their minds in front of cable news, don’t need to deal with it. If you can accept that we are going to do not just horrible things, but evil things, in the name of this country, then you have a place here. If not, go back to the agency and tell them it didn’t work out. I’ll make sure you don’t lose your job.”

Dave swallowed. “No, sir. I’m ready. Whatever you need.”

Santos smiled. “Good. You should also know we occasionally take private contracts. We are not funded by any government agencies. We would have to make financial disclosures if we were. Our private contracts vary, but they must be considered a national security risk in some fashion. We don’t just kill civilians. Recently, we had a congresswoman who proposed a bill that would regulate investment banks out of business. This we couldn’t allow to happen, and she was dealt with. I would have passed on that particular contract but I was not in charge then. But I followed orders and helped get it done. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suzan is outside. She will get your permanent passcodes and IDs. You’re going to be directly under me. I am the king, emperor, president, and CEO of Starlight. But you can never call me by name again unless it’s just me and you. I’m referred to only as the Messenger in all outside communications and conversations. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll talk again after your training in eight weeks. Go see Suzan now.”

He rose. “Thank you for this opportunity, sir. I won’t let you down.”

“That’s yet to be seen.”

Dave felt his heart fluttering as he walked out of the room. He glanced back once and saw Santos turned, facing the window, staring out into nothing.

EPILOGUE

As the plane began to descend, Henri felt his ears pop from the change in pressure. He reached across with his left hand to the box of juice on the tray in front of him. His right hand was next to the box but it was painful to move, even six months after his physical therapy had ended. The orthopedic surgeons had told him that he would likely feel pain in his shoulder joint for the rest of his life. After taking three bullets directly to the acromion, he was just glad to still have his arm attached.

After landing, he took a taxi deep into the heart of Algiers. The city was a bustling mass of humanity, but it was beautiful. It sat on a crescent beach and the buildings were an eclectic mix of Arabian, French, and Spanish with a little native African thrown in from the local architects. The driver spoke fluent French and speaking his native tongue made Henri relax a little. His stomach was nothing but knots and butterflies. But as one instructor in the military had told him, it’s all right to have butterflies as long as they’re in formation, traveling in the same direction.

Henri enjoyed the architecture and the people and the smells of the city as they drove, eventually leaving the city and ending up in a little town close by. He wasn’t sure how long they had driven for when the taxi suddenly came to a stop, but his anxiety had decreased very little. The last time he was here…was something he never thought about. And now, being back, he wished he didn’t have to come.

Once he’d paid and stood outside, he looked at the little slip of paper in his pocket and confirmed the address against the numbers on the side of the building. He was in the right place. The building was square with rounded pillars on top, almost giving it the appearance of a mosque. He went inside. The lobby smelled like cooking rice and lamb and he remembered that he hadn’t eaten since this morning.

Ornate rugs decorated the floors, and the walls had ceramics on display. It was an upscale building, at least upscale for this town, and Henri guessed it was filled with professionals. He took the stairs rather than the old elevator and went to the third floor. He walked down the hallway to the flat he was looking for. He put his ear to it…silence. He tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

Once he was inside, a putrid stench hit his nostrils. He checked his pockets but didn’t have a handkerchief or napkin to cover his nose with, so he simply breathed through his mouth as he took the pistol out of his waistband.

He walked cautiously so as to prevent the floors from creaking. A door was to his right and he glanced inside. It was the bedroom. Seated on the bed, nude, was Gustav.

His hair was much longer and Henri saw several bottles filled with urine around the bed. Fecal matter stained the carpets and walls.

Henri scanned the room for weapons. A handgun was on the nightstand.

“I was wondering what took you so long,” Gustav said.

“Vous êtes un homme difficile à trouver.”

“No French. I do not like it.”

“It’s your mother tongue.”

“I prefer English. It is more direct. More closer to truth.”

Henri took a deep breath and looked over the room. “This has to end, Gustav. You’ve run for a year and I missed you everywhere you went, but I knew you had to come back here. I knew that you couldn’t stay away for too long.”

“Do you remember the bodies, Henri?”

“Yes, I remember. My unit was in charge of disseminating misinformation about the incident.”

“The incident? Is that what they called it? We slaughtered them, Henri. We killed women and children because they wanted to be free and they fought us.”

“We had orders and we carried out those orders. We were just kids.”

“Would you do it now?”

“No, I would quit.”

“I remember the bodies were stacked so high I didn’t think we could fit them all on the trucks. It was nearly an entire village. The village fought us. They chose to die rather than surrender to their invaders.”

“Some called us invaders and others called us liberators.”

“Liberate from what? Replacing one tyranny with another is not liberation.”

“What do you want me to say, Gustav? I cannot change the past.”

“Do you know that that is not my name?”

“I did not. What is your name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Henri was silent a moment. “Come back with me peacefully.” Gustav began to laugh. “With your condition, you can maybe stay at a government hospital instead of the prison. You’ll be taken care of there.”

“That girl I had with me. What happened to her?”

“She is doing fine. She left school and moved to another state. Alaska I think. I asked her a lot about you.”

“What did she say?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“No.”

“Why did you take her, Gustav? You could have gotten away if she hadn’t been with you.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he took a deep breath and sat up straight. “Do you have snipers on the roof across the street?”

“No, I came alone.”

He turned and looked at him. A dark beard covered his jaw. “You came alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to die?”

“No. But I don’t think I will.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you will kill me.”

Gustav nodded. “Bad decision.” He threw himself at the pistol.

Henri raised his weapon and fired four rounds as quickly as possible as Gustav got off two. They both hit their targets: the heart. Henri was flung back into the front room. He lay on the carpet as he sucked in air and tried to get back his breath.

After a few moments, he rose, and ripped off the Kevlar vest underneath his shirt. Two indentations were over the heart: one on the left ventricle and one on the right.

Gustav lay on his back on the bed. Henri walked to him. He took out his phone to call an ambulance, and Gustav grabbed his hand, pulling it down. Henri didn’t let go. Instead, he sat on the bed and they held hands as life left him. He went limp a moment later, and Henri reached down to him and closed his eyes.

He stood up and was about to leave when he saw a little red book on the nightstand. The initials “IR” were stamped into the front in gold lettering. He picked it up. It was a journal. He turned to one of the entries and read:

December 13th

I still hear her at night. I wake up and I think she’s still here so I go to the kitchen or to the bathroom to find her but there’s nothing but empty space. I’m responsible for her death. I had a chance for us to get out, to get away from Starlight and the killing, but I didn’t take it. I thought we were doing God’s work. But killing is never God’s work. I can see that now. I wish I’d seen it before.

She died quickly, two shots to the heart. She was on assignment in Cuba and I got word through the Messenger of what had happened. They wouldn’t tell me why she died or what assignment she had there or who killed her. They couldn’t even get the body back for me, only telling me that it would be buried in some cemetery near Havana.

Then I called the Messenger, crying, and begged him to return the body so I could see her one more time. He said he would do that for me. That it was dangerous but he would do that for me. It would be a favor and he would ask me for a favor one day and I couldn’t refuse. I promised him that if he got the body back for me I would do anything he asked.

She’s buried next to my grandparents in Palmyra. One day I’ll visit her. It’s my fault she’s dead, and I can never get her back. My wife. My love. How can you ever fill a hole like this? Every day is the worst day of my life and I don’t think I can make it through. I would give anything just to see her one more time. To hear her laugh. To have her argue with me.

I like to think she died defending somebody. It would be just like her to do so. She defended the helpless and felt they needed someone to stand up for them. I believe in fate, and I believe someone needed to die that day. I just wish it hadn’t been her.

The journal entry went on like this. Henri flipped through a few more pages and then closed the book and put it down. He looked once more to Gustav before leaving, and shutting the door behind him. When he got outside he saw a trash bin on the street near some palm trees. He took out his badge and his gun, emptied the clip, and threw them in the trash.

A breeze was blowing and children were playing soccer on a tennis court across the street. He watched them a long time, listened to them laughing and teasing each other. One of the boys looked to him and smiled and he smiled back.

Then, he walked away.

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BY VICTOR METHOS

Medical Thrillers

Plague (A Medical Thriller)

Pestilence

Scourge (Coming February 2014)

Thrillers

Diary of an Assassin

Black Sky (A Mystery-Thriller)

Murder Corporation (A Crime Thriller)

Superhero Thrillers

Superhero (An Action Thriller)

Black Onyx

Black Onyx Reloaded

Jon Stanton Thrillers

The White Angel Murder

Walk in Darkness

Sin City Homicide

Arsonist

The Porn Star Murders

Sociopath

Creature-Feature Novels

The Extinct

Sea Creature

Paranormal Thrillers

Dracula (A Modern Telling)

Savage: A Novel

Science Fiction

Clone Hunter

Star Dreamer: The Early Science Fiction of Victor Methos

Humor

Welcome to Hell, Earl

Philosophical Fiction

Existentialism and Death on a Paris Afternoon

To contact the author, learn about his latest adventures, get tips on starting your own adventures, or learn about upcoming releases, please visit the author’s blog at http://methosreview.blogspot.com/

Copyright 2013 Victor Methos

Kindle Edition

License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away ta other people. If you would like ta share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return ta Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.

Please note that this is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All events in this work are purely from the imagination of the author and are not intended to signify, represent, or reenact any event in actual fact.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S REQUEST

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